I don’t faint. I wish I could. It would be easier when the pain hits simply to step out of awareness entirely. To float off into some other plain of consciousness and wait until the pain dissipates, or at least until I’m more ready to face it.
Instead, my body simply . . . folds up. I cannot move. Cannot speak or offer any form of reaction. I can only lie there while pain like waves churned up by a storm crash on the shores of my senses, battering me, pulverizing my bones. I am naked, helpless, defenseless. Unable even to gather myself and flee the onslaught.
Somewhere, through the howling gale-force winds, through the roar of ceaseless thunder, I hear Vor’s voice shouting my name over and over again. His panic is palpable. If only I could say something, do something. Give him some sign that I heard so that he would just, please, stop that gods-damned bellowing!
But I can’t. And maybe it’s for the best. The irritation gives me something to hold onto. My soul—that pale, naked thing lying on the shores of my mind—reaches out and clings to his voice like an anchoring chain as another wave of pain hits, and another, and another. Each crash and roll tries to wrench me back into that eternal sea of torment. I cannot fight, cannot hide. I can do only what I have always done: endure.
All storms must cease eventually. And sometimes, the greater the storm, the more swiftly it blows itself out. Such is the case here. The wind lessens, the waves retreat. The clouds of my awareness part, allowing me to feel something other than agony once more. I find myself cradled in Vor’s strong arms. Apparently, he’s forgone his vow never to touch me again in favor of shifting me into a more comfortable position. Which is just as well, for I seem to have landed with one arm twisted awkwardly underneath me. Now, on top of the other sharp pangs still rippling through every muscle and sinew, I’ve the added unpleasantness of returning blood flow through that arm. Somehow, it feels like an extra spite from the gods.
Vor seems to have gathered blankets and cushions from the ruined bed and mounded them together into a makeshift pallet. He eases me onto it now, resting my head on a pillow. His large hand lingers, cupped around my skull, fingers tangled in my hair. My wide-open eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling. I cannot see him save for a blurry impression of a face, half-bathed in lorst light. It doesn’t matter. I feel him. All his tenderness, concern, and anxiety, like a pulsing aura which gives him shape and form to my senses.
And underscoring all those feelings is another, deeper emotion, which sparks from the tips of his fingers as he slowly brushes a strand of hair off my cheek: longing. He cannot hide it. Not anymore. I’ve been inside his head now. All the way down to where that dark thing had festered. That poison. That twisted parasite wound tight around his soul, fusing with his emotions. It was like a strangler vine, wrapped around a living tree, creeping along every bough and twig until the tree inside was dead and rotten and only the vine remained. An ugly, twisted parody of the proud original.
When I’d looked at that darkness winding around Vor’s spirit, I knew I could do something. A layer of calm would give him only temporary relief. What he needed wasn’t another layer. What he needed was cleansing. But is it possible? I’d wondered. Could I push my calm inside him? Hard enough, deep enough, that it drove the darkness out?
Apparently, I could. At great cost to myself.
I wish I could sigh. I wish I could close my eyes. Anything to relieve some of this tension from my rigid body. For the moment, I have no such control. I can only lie in the position in which he has placed me.
I let my gods-gift reach out tentatively to Vor. He’s been silent for some time now. Pacing the room, shuffling around, moving stones and broken pieces of furniture. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s a relief to have a little distance from him, a chance for my scalded senses to recover. But will they recover? Will I? Or have I pushed my powers too far this time? Is this to be my existence? This trapped awareness within an inert body-prison? A thrill of panic stirs in my gut. Desperately, I try to move something: a toe, a nostril, an eyelash. But the paralysis is complete, and my vision remains cloudy.
Suddenly, Vor reappears beside me. I cannot see him save for a blurry silhouette, but the shape of his feelings is strong. “I found it,” he says, kneeling. His voice, a deep, earthy rumble stirs something warm and liquid in my core. The next moment, he reaches out, hesitates. Then he breaks his vow one more time to take my hand, open it, drop something into my palm, and curl my fingers over it.
My breath catches. My necklace! I’d know it anywhere, its silver filigree setting, the broken chain, the stone itself warm down in its core. For a long moment, I can do nothing but hold it. Then, with a supreme effort of will, I tighten my fist. Just a little. The throb in the stone’s heart quickens under my palm. Its resonance works down inside of me, and my body responds. I begin to . . . to unlock, somehow. Muscles tense, relax, and every limb goes limp. Finally, I draw a long, long breath. Hold it. Let it out in a measured count to ten.
Vor’s awareness shoots to me, his eyes intent. “Faraine?”
I cannot answer. Not yet. By now the unlocking has spread all the way to my toes. When I try to move them, they respond. Next, I flex my calves, my knees. I draw another long breath before attempting a blink. First one eyelid. Then the other. Then together. With each rise and fall of my lashes, the world comes into better focus.
Vor’s worried face hovers above me. His eyes are no longer terrible black voids, but bright and silver, ringed by incredibly long lashes. His mouth is full and sensuous, lips parted to release short, tense breaths. Pale hair falls across shoulders so broad, so strong they might bear the weight of mountains. “Faraine? Can you hear me?”
Part of me doesn’t want to answer. I’d much rather close my eyes, turn my head, and sink into proper sleep. Though the paralysis seems to have passed, my body aches from my ordeal.
But I must face him. Now or never.
“Yes. I can hear you.” The words emerge raw in my dry throat. I cough. The convulsion sends new sparks of pain bursting through my body. Rolling to one side, I wait for it to pass. Vor’s anxiety redoubles, pressing against my senses. He reaches for me but stops himself. His hand hovers in the air above my shoulder. By the time the spasm has passed, he’s already withdrawn from me again.
My eyelids fall again. In that moment, in the darkness of my head, I see the ugly twist of his features looming over me, feel the heat of his breath right before his lips crashed into mine. The black voids of his eyes. His hands scorching my flesh with their fiery touch.
Shuddering, I turn away. “Water,” I say, thickly. “Is there water?”
“I’m sorry,” Vor answers. “I tried to get through to the washroom, but the wall is unstable. I found the remains of a meal, but the ewer was smashed.”
I nod. Another shiver works its way down my spine. Then, setting my jaw, I start to sit up. Vor reacts at once, reaching out but not quite touching me. “Should you be doing that?”
My robe catches under my arm, pulling open across my chest. Hastily, I grab the fabric and draw it closed again, then adjust my legs under me on that pile of dusty blankets. “I’m fine,” I growl, even as the room tilts and my head spins. I plant a hand on the ground. My other hand still grips my crystal. I look down at it, almost to convince myself it’s really there. Thank the gods it wasn’t smashed to dust beneath the fallen stones.
Vor’s eyes are fixed upon me. I open my lashes, peer at him. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Pain flashes in his soul, a sharp stab of guilt that makes me wince. He shakes his head, gets to his feet, and crosses the room to the door. It’s a relief if I’m honest. His emotions are too strong for me in this weakened state.
“I can hear them working on the other side,” he says after a long silence. His back is to me, lorst light gleaming on the silvery strands of his hair. “They’ll break through to us soon. Hael will drive them hard until they do.”
I watch him, studying the set of his shoulders. Shame surrounds him like a cloud. He hates himself. Hates what he did to me. I wrap my arms around my stomach, drawing another careful breath. How am I supposed to feel about this man now that I know about the poison? He had me dragged to the chopping block, bowed over and facing that blue-lined box. He tore off my clothes, put his hands on me. These were such terrible, violent actions.
But were they truly committed by him? I saw that darkness. I felt how it enwrapped him, a separate, living identity. I felt the rage, the lust, the betrayal, the horror, all swirling around a core of pulsing, living despair.
I lift my chin, staring hard at his back. When I speak, I make certain my voice is calm and clear. “These tremors.”
His spine stiffens. His hands clench into fists.
I continue: “Are they why you need my father’s Miphates? Are they the danger you hinted at, Mythanar’s great threat?”
He does not answer at first. Finally, he lets out a huge breath, turns, looks at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
My brow puckers. “Why not?”
“You need not concern yourself with Mythanar anymore. I am sending you home. The moment they break through that door, I will give the order. You may carry word to your father that I have no further need of his Miphates. The alliance is off.”
A chill shivers in my gut. No. This cannot be. The alliance cannot be off. Not after everything I’ve been through. My people are still suffering. They need Vor. They need the powerful trolde warriors. And besides . . . I study that cloud of emotion surrounding Vor, bowing his shoulders, threatening to crush him beneath the weight. He needs this too. He needs the hope this alliance offers. He needs it as badly as I do.
“And what if I do not want to leave?” I say softly.
“What?”
I rise. I’m a little unsteady, my knees buckling, my head swimming. But I brace myself, grip my crystal, and hold the Shadow King’s gaze. Then I approach him. One step. And another. He backs away, so I stop. Breathe. Then advance two steps more.
“I’m not ready to give up,” I say. “Not yet.”
His face is stone. But I feel the heat flaring through him. The confusion. The hope. And again, that painful longing. It’s real. It’s so real, he can’t hide it. Not even when he tries.
“You cannot be serious,” he says, his voice tight. “Not after everything . . . not after what I almost . . .”
I swallow hard, dust clogging my throat. “There’s still a chance, isn’t there?” The words are difficult to speak, but I force them out. “There’s still a chance for us?”
Vor looks away. Then, slowly, as though compelled by a force he cannot resist, his gaze meets mine. “If your father agrees to the new terms I’ve demanded . . . yes. Yes, the marriage could still go forward.”
“And what are those terms?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That he will send his Miphates now. At once. Before I lead troops to Gavaria.”
I nod. Let a slow breath out through my lips. “If my father agrees, you will take me as your bride?”
“No!” Vor quickly shakes his head, his hard expression breaking. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Gods, no, Faraine. I wouldn’t ask that of you. I will find some other way for Mythanar.”
I know what he’s doing. I feel his guilt and shame trying to smother out every other feeling. Hastily, I take another step toward him, half-stumble on a bit of rubble, but quickly draw myself straight once more. “What if there is no other way?”
He looks at me, his expression agonized.
“Prince Ruvaen is sure to overrun Gavaria by summer’s end.” I continue. “If you send me home, I’ll only be murdered by the fae, just as my sisters were. Gavaria needs Mythanar even as Mythanar needs Gavaria.” I take another step, then another. There’s scarcely two paces between us now. I could reach out and touch him if I dared. “Which means . . . maybe you and I need each other too.”
The surge of feeling from Vor is so strong, I nearly draw back. It’s hot and red, longing and lust so intertwined they cannot be separated from one another. But when I look into his eyes, I don’t see the dark voids which had bored so viciously into my gaze. The poison gone. Only the man remains.
But what manner of man is this? The otherworldly king? The fierce protector? The strong leader? The tender lover? Or the vengeful, dark, dangerous, secret self that underlies all these? Even now, he holds himself back, fighting the urges pulsing in his veins. Determined to honor me. No matter what.
Because that is the truth of his character. The real man. The man of honor.
Summoning my courage, I stretch out a hand. Take hold of his. A spark seems to shoot from his touch, sending ripples of lava across my senses. But it’s not painful. In fact, quite the opposite.
“Faraine.” My name is rough on his lips.
“What if there is no other way?” I say again softly. “What if we are each other’s only hope?”
He looks at me like I truly am his lifeline, his salvation. My heart quivers, thrilling anew at the possibilities inspired by his touch. I’m not sure I will ever again feel the peace I once knew in his presence, but . . . but maybe . . .
I draw a step nearer. The air between us is alive. Lightning leaps back and forth from my body to his.
“I don’t want to give up hope,” I whisper, lowering my eyes to his lips. “Do you?”
Without a word, he slips his other hand around my waist. His palm is warm through the silky fabric of my robe as he draws me toward him. I tense, but the pressure he applies, though firm, is gentle. The emotions rippling from his soul are so different from what they were under the poison’s influence. There’s nothing dark here. Terrifying yes, but a thrilling, heady sort of terror that intoxicates rather than frightens. The warmth in his touch is not the heat of destruction but the fire of life itself.
His hand slides slowly up my back, molding my spine so that I bend toward him. He takes my hand, presses it against his bare chest. I feel his heartbeat throbbing under my palm. “Faraine,” he says again, bowing his head toward me. I find my mouth drawn irresistibly toward his, until the space between our lips is scarcely more than a breath, a whimper. Suddenly my body remembers how it felt to lie beneath him, to give myself over to him. To feel him delighting in my curves and contours. To experience his pleasure every time he elicited another low moan from my throat.
Only this time, how different might it be? Because this time, he knows who I am. I stand before him as myself and no other. Unmasked. The shunned princess. My father’s embarrassment. My mother’s shame. The eldest daughter, but the second choice. And yet . . .
And yet I’ve always known that with Vor, I was never second. He would have chosen me first had the choice been his all along.
What will he choose now? Hope? Duty? Restraint? Despair? I feel each alternative swirling around us like a storm. All I want is to stand up on my toes, to close that tiny space between us. To make the choice for him. But I cannot. This is a choice that must be made together or not at all.
The tip of his nose brushes against mine. That touch alone is nearly enough to undo me. I have no dread anymore. Only need. My breath is quick and fast, my heart thudding so loud, I’m sure he must hear it. And still he holds himself in check.
“Oh, Faraine, Faraine.” His voice is like a prayer. “What if I hurt you? What if I . . .?”
“I am not afraid, Vor.” My eyes close, my body and soul wholly concentrated on the warm sweetness of his breath against my mouth. “Please.”
His chin dips. His lips just brush against mine, maddeningly light. Not even a taste. Like a single drop of water on a parched and desperate tongue. I open my mouth to him, but he’s already retreated. “Vor—” I begin, urgently.
A great, crashing groan of rock.
Every fragile thing in the air between us shatters. We spring away from one another just as a second groan and crash follows the first. Then a rough troldish voice shouts from the other side of the door: “Vor! Morar-juk, crorsva-tah, Vor?”
Vor’s eyes flash in the lorst light, meeting mine. He looks frightened and then angry and then . . . I don’t know. His barriers slam back into place, pushing his emotions beyond the reach of my gods-gift. “My brother,” he says shortly. Turning to the broken doorway, he bellows back, “Grakol-dura, Sul! Mazoga!”
I retreat further into the room, pulling my robe tight around myself. My body is still warm and alive, but what am I to do with these feelings? I don’t know what will happen once the troldefolk break through. Will Vor be true to his word? Will he send me home directly?
The door shudders in its frame. More shouts, more voices. Finally, the door slams open hard. Two figures step through in a cloud of dust. The first of them launches himself at Vor, but the second spares not a glance for her king. Instead, Captain Hael’s eyes fix upon me. Very wide. Very tense. Every line of her face is etched deep with shadow.
She strides across the room to me and drops her voice to a low pitch. “Are you hurt, Princess?”
Hastily, I shake my head then draw my shoulders back and answer out loud, “I’m fine.” My bodyguard tosses her gaze between me and Vor, her mouth disbelieving. I catch her forearm, draw her eye back to me. “Truly, I am unhurt. Nothing . . . happened.”
Hael’s eyes spark in the lorst light. She opens her mouth then closes it on whatever questions are piling up on her tongue. Instead, she puts an arm around me and says only, “Come. Let’s get you out of here. Find you some proper clothes.” I can’t very well protest, especially as more and more people are now crowding the chamber, cutting me off from Vor. So I let her guide me toward the door.
“Hael!”
At the sound of her king’s voice, Hael’s arm tightens around me. My heart leaps to my throat and catches there. Is this the moment? The moment when Vor issues the command for me to be sent home? I force myself to turn around. To meet his eyes. They glow so strangely by the flickering lights of the multi-colored lorst crystals carried into the room by our rescuers.
He wrenches his gaze away from me, focusing on Hael instead. “Have the princess taken to fresh chambers and made comfortable.”
Hael offers a sharp salute. “At once, my King.”
Then she pushes me through the door, and Vor is lost to my sight.
