: Chapter 11

I divide my long hair into three parts and plait each part separately. Then I weave the three long plaits together into a single long rope down my back, my fingers deft and confident. I’ve grown used to caring for my own needs over the last two years at Nornala Convent. While Ilsevel has several times offered to send over one of her ladies to tend me, I’ve staunchly refused. I can’t quite bear the idea of letting a stranger touch me, even the trace contact of fingers in my hair. It’s more than my strained senses can bear.

So, I finish the long plait, tie the end, then arrange a gauzy veil in place, securing it with a delicate silver circlet. I have no mirror to inspect the results. What does it matter? No one will be looking at me at the heartfasting today. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to get through the ordeal without anyone noticing I’m there. I touch the crystal pendant resting against my heart. Slowly, I draw in a breath, hold it, let it out again.

I can’t avoid him any longer.

Closing my eyes, I drop my chin, striving to still my mind. It’s too late. Now that I’ve let thoughts of Vor intrude, I cannot stop the mental image that springs so vividly to mind—the expression in his eyes beneath the moonlight when he voiced those simple words: “Would you come?”

A sharp breath escapes my lips. I sit upright, open my eyes, and stare into my flickering fire, concentrating on the dance of flames. I’ve taken care over the last few days to avoid even a chance glimpse of the Shadow King. I’ve kept to my rooms, interacting with no one but Ilsevel and Aurae. Ilsevel has begged me to join the evening revels, but I’ve firmly put her off, citing illness as my excuse.

It’s hardly an excuse. A single evening back in Beldroth was enough to drive me to desperate pain. I cannot bear more. Ilsevel’s tumultuous emotions are enough for me to manage. Goddess save me! I must return to the convent soon. To peace. And quiet. If I hadn’t promised Ilsevel I’d remain through the heartfasting, I would have begged Father to let me go already.

My door creaks open. “Fairie?”

Surprised, I turn in my chair. “Come in, Ilsevel.”

My sister stands in the doorway. She wears the traditional heartfasting gown—a long column of soft white with a deeply plunging neckline. A cloak fastens at her throat and falls over her shoulders, embroidered with gold threads in the sacred patterns of Nornala and holy unity. Her hair is gathered up in a gold net, and she holds a heavily beaded veil in both hands. Her eyes are wide, shadowed.

“Fairie,” she says quietly, “are you alone?”

“I am.” A frown puckers my brow. “Dearest, what’s wrong?”

She steps into the room and draws the door shut behind her. Then, in a few quick strides she crosses to me, kneels, and places her head in my lap. I freeze in place as the wave of her emotion rolls over me. For a moment I fear it will pierce my small defenses and leave me gasping. I grip my crystal, count my breaths, and maintain a steady pulse in time with the stone’s heart.

Ilsevel lets out a ragged sob. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

My heart twists. Though I can already feel the beginnings of a headache, I push it back and rest my hand on top of Ilsevel’s head. My fingers brush the gold threads of her hairnet and the jeweled pins holding it in place. “Can’t do what?” I ask softly, though I already know the answer.

Ilsevel lifts her head, her eyes gleaming. “This absurd pantomime. This playacting of true love and eternal devotion.” She tries to smile, but a tear escapes down her cheek before she can wipe it away. “I don’t think I was meant for the stage. I’m not that good of an actress.”

I chew my lower lip, taking care what words I choose. “Is . . . is it King Vor? Is he . . .? Do you think . . .?” I can’t finish the question. I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask.

Ilsevel shrugs and rests her head on my knee again. “King Vor has been kind enough. At least, as kind as a man like him can be.”

“Have you spoken together in private? About the marriage, I mean.”

“In private?” She laughs bitterly. “As if Father would stand for it! He’s much too afraid I’ll say the wrong thing, mess up his precious negotiations.”

I nod slowly, my lips pressed tight. This is not a conversation I want to be having. Not now. Not ever. But my sister’s distress is so potent, it doesn’t take a gods-gift to feel it. “I got the impression the Shadow King wants to do right by you.”

Ilsevel turns her head just enough to glare up at me. “How in the seven gods’ names could you form any such impression, hidden away in your rooms like this?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I turn away quickly. The last thing I want is to tell Ilsevel about my chance meeting in the garden with her intended. If I try, my voice will surely betray . . . something. Something I’m not certain I can define even for myself. Something I’m not at all prepared to explain.

Instead, I answer softly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Ilsie. These last few days, I mean. I hope you know how I wanted to be.”

Ilsevel sits back on her heels and studies my face. Is she reading the feelings I’ve been striving so hard to suppress? Are they as evident in my eyes as I fear?

At last she sighs, her shoulders sagging. “The truth is . . .” Her lips twist to one side as though what she’s about to say is particularly distasteful. “The truth is, the troll king terrifies me.”

I wince, repressing an impulse to correct her word choice. Now is not the time. Ilsevel continues all in a rush, as though she has to get the words out now or never. “The idea of being a wife, of . . . of everything that means! Fyndra has been to see me, you know. Father sent her to give me instruction.” She wraps her arms around her stomach. “She told me what I’m meant to do, the duties of a wife, and I . . . I can’t bear to think of it. Not with him. He’s so big and stern and terrifying and . . . when he looks at me, I can’t help thinking he’s already disappointed. How can I help but disappoint him more? I’m not what he wants any more than he’s what I want. So how can we ever make each other happy?”

Her despair is so potent, it hits me like a slap. I close my eyes, riding out the worst of it, even as I force my own seething emotions into place. I don’t have time to wrestle with jealousy, with resentment. I don’t have time to wish I could switch places with my sister, to even consider the possibility that I might have what it takes to please her future husband. Nothing about this situation is fair. Nothing about it is right. But we don’t get to choose the trials fate sends our way.

I take one of Ilsevel’s hands. Her skin is cool and dry, and the touch sends a jolt right up my arm and into my head. I grimace, but grab hold of that pain, use it to steady myself. When I speak, my voice is surprisingly calm. “Is there anything I can do, Ilsie? Any way I can help you?”

My sister’s tear-brimming eyes flash to meet mine. “Yes!”

The force of her response startles me. “Really?” I shake my head and lean a little closer. “Tell me.”

“You can take my place.”

“What?”

Ilsevel grips my hand in both of hers. “You can take my place, Fairie,” she says, her voice low and eager. “Not for . . . for all of it, of course. I just mean for today. You can stand in for me at the heartfasting.”

“No, Ilsevel. I couldn’t—”

“It’s all perfectly legal!” My sister cuts me off quickly. When I try to withdraw my hand, she holds on tighter, her fingers digging in hard. “So long as one of my own blood stands in my place and speaks the vows in my name, the heartfasting is binding in the eyes of Nornala. It’s done all the time when securing long-distance alliances. Remember when Uncle Hamon married that countess from Vaalyun? Remember when the lady’s brother stood proxy at the heartfasting, and uncle had to swear all the vows to him instead? We giggled so hard, Mother sent us away and had us whipped with willow rods afterwards.”

She’s so earnest, she cannot seem to see how hard I’m shaking my head. “But what good would it do?” I protest when she lets me get a word in. “Even if I were to stand in for you today, I cannot take the burden of this marriage from your shoulders.”

Ilsevel wilts and finally lets go of my hand. She sinks into her white skirts, so close to the hearth I fear she’ll dirty the hem. “I still have the Maiden’s Journey,” she says, looking down at her hands. “I’ve got a little time while making the sacrifices. Time to prepare my mind. To say goodbye to . . . to everything. To fresh air and sunshine and rolling green hills. Everything.” She lifts her gaze, and the expression in her eyes is enough to break my heart. “Once I’ve said goodbye, I think I’ll be ready to do this. To enter into this entombment Father has chosen for me.”

“Ilsie—”

She rises and strides to the window, standing in the sunlight. I’ve always thought my sister so fierce, so fearless. But looking at her now, I can see little of that girl I know.

“When I think about the future,” she says, gazing up at the clouds rolling by in the cold blue sky, “of living in his underground world, of never seeing the sun again . . . of being bedded by this monster, expected to bear his enormous, inhuman children . . .” She shudders and turns to me. All the terror she’s been trying to hold at bay stains her face in vivid hues. “I feel like an offering. Like the marriage altar is no better than a sacrificial slab. And I am the lamb Father has chosen. Mine is the blood that will be spilled for the sake of our kingdom.”

What can I say? What comfort can I offer? Any words of mine will sound so dismissive in the face of her fear.

“Please, Fairie,” Ilsevel continues, her hands folded in pleading. “Please, stand in my place today. Just today. You’ll be wearing the veil anyway. King Vor won’t even know the difference. Please.”

She doesn’t know what she’s asking. She’s so lost in her own fear, she cannot begin to comprehend what her words are doing to me. I fix my gaze on the ceremonial veil she left lying on the floor. It’s made of gold lace and heavily beaded. A perfect disguise. My head throbs with the force of my sister’s fear. It throbs as well with my own pain, my own unspoken longings and fears. I feel so helpless, so hopeless. For Ilsevel. For me. For Vor.

But perhaps in this moment, I can offer some small measure of relief.

I rise, smoothing out the folds of my gown. Then I move to my sister, take both her hands in mine. “Do you think that gown will fit me?”

Ilsevel gasps. “Then you’ll do it?”

I nod.

“Oh, Fairie!” The next moment, her arms are around me. “Thank you!”

My gift does not allow me to take away pain, only to feel it. But in this moment, my sister’s relief is so great, it almost seems as though I could. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the knowledge that I could help her in this small way will be sufficient to carry me through this ordeal. Goddess help me.

Ilsevel takes my hand. “Hurry,” she says. “We need to change. They’ll be coming for me soon.”