: Chapter 8

The last brilliant notes of the Phoenix Flight resolve as I whirl Ilsevel in a final turn and set her lightly on her feet. She is breathless, panting, and places a hand on her heaving chest. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, full of vibrant laughter. She is undeniably charming.

I smile down at her. “Did you enjoy your flight, princess?”

She tosses her head and spreads her arms, her long sleeves wafting on either side of her. “If only I had proper wings, I feel I could rise straight into the sky!”

I repress a shudder. How anyone could speak so casually of that hideous expanse is beyond me. Taking care not to let my smile shift, I offer the princess my arm. “That would be a shame. This court would be deprived of one of its chief beauties should you make such an escape.”

She shoots me an arch expression and gently rests her fingers on my forearm. “Do you prefer your birds in cages then, King Vor?”

There’s something about the way she asks the question, something behind that playful, flirtatious tone. Is that fear I see simmering behind the defiance in her eyes? My stomach clenches. In the press of my own needs—my concerns for Mythanar, the complexities of negotiations with Larongar, the constant balance of expectation and desperation—it’s all too easy to forget there is another person on the other side of these dealings.

I pat her hand lightly as I lead her from the dance floor. “It is my belief that no thing of beauty should ever be caged, princess. I would only hope that even a wild bird might be convinced to remain of its own free will. And a man who truly cared for such a bird would be honored to do everything in his power to convince it.”

She narrows her eyes, considering me closely. “Well spoken, king.” With a bobbing curtsy, she releases my arm and slips into the crowd. I can only hope I said the right thing, that my words offered the princess some peace of mind.

I turn in place, searching for Faraine. Now that I’ve satisfied Larongar by dancing with his younger daughter, I should like to find the elder and resume our conversation. The crowd is dense, and with all those human faces and garish colors mingled beneath the orange glow of the lanterns and brasiers, it’s difficult to discern one face from another.

A heavy hand claps my shoulder. “That, my boy, was the most fun I’ve had in an age!” I turn to meet Larongar’s wide grin, his face red and glistening with perspiration. “I hope you have more such dances up your sleeve to teach the sleepy folk of my court. We could all do with a little shake-up!”

I grin and try to surreptitiously slip out of his grasp. “Most trolde dances would be rather difficult to teach,” I admit. “And possibly dangerous in such a setting.”

Larongar laughs. “We like a bit of danger around here. Don’t we, my Lady Fyndra?”

“That we do, sweet king!” Fyndra responds, leaning heavily on Larongar’s arm but training her smile upon me. “I’d give anything for a proper thrill for once.”

“What, am I not thrilling enough for you?” Larongar angles her away from me, then takes hold of my arm. “Keep your dangerous dances to yourself for now, my boy. I’ve got something else for you. Call it a gift.”

“Indeed, friend Larongar, such a fine meal and equally fine company is gift enough.”

“Nonsense! I intend to make a good impression on my Mythanar brother, and I won’t let anyone stop me. Come!”

So saying, the king leads me back to the tables. The meal has been cleared away, leaving only wine and bowls of sugared fruits. Larongar sends Fyndra away, telling her to fend for herself, and takes his seat beside his queen. I cast one last look around the great hall for a glimpse of Faraine but spy only Hael and Sul standing on the fringes—Hael with her arms crossed, Sul lounging languidly against a pillar. My other people are positioned similarly, keeping to themselves in clusters of two or three. They’re leaving the socialization to me. After all, I’m the mad fool who’s determined to take one of these humans for a wife.

There’s no sign of Faraine anywhere. Did she leave the banquet already? Did I insult her when I unexpectedly spun her in the dance? It never occurred to me that humans might dance that song differently than the way I was taught. And coming from the convent, Faraine must be far less used to the gaieties of court life than her sister.

Still, she was quick to defuse the situation when her father took offense. She successfully mitigated his anger and salvaged what could have been sudden disaster for both me and my people. If I did somehow wound her, she rose to my defense anyway. Gods, I wish I’d been quick enough to—

“Ah! There she is.” Larongar’s booming voice breaks my train of thought. “Ilsevel, child, come make your father proud, why don’t you?”

I look down to the dance floor, now cleared. Ilsevel is there, standing alone in the center, a lute in her hands. A servant brings a chair, and she sits, her red gown pooling around her. Firelight plays on the folds of fabric, making her look ablaze. It’s suddenly difficult to look anywhere else.

“Now,” Larongar says, leaning to whisper loudly in my ear, “this is worth traveling across worlds for, trust me.”

The princess begins to strum her instrument. The chords are simple, but ring out so clear and true, they strike my senses like shards of pure light. Then she opens her mouth and begins to sing. Low, soft. A crooning lilt without words, but full of far more meaning than mere words could express. All other awareness is swallowed up in the sound of her voice. Magical and rich. Haunting and sad. At first, I feel nothing but sound, pure, almost holy.

Then, slowly a sensation comes over me—an impression of far-off home. Known, but never before seen. Longed for with a broken heart. A home that may never be found unless the heart is healed, but the heart cannot heal until it finds rest. A painful, endless, glorious dichotomy.

Her voice, the song, enraptures me. I’m transported from this hall of smoke and humanity into a world I never knew existed. I’ve always known where I belong: at Mythanar, in the Palace of Living Stone, raised to sit upon my father’s throne. It is my place, my purpose. I’ve never wanted more.

But now I taste longing. Not the stirrings of lust that every young man knows as he reaches a certain age. Not the unsettled discomfort in the blood that urges for action and adventure. No, this is true longing. An ache in the soul. A realization that my heart is not whole and won’t be until somehow, somewhere, I find that missing piece.

Who would have thought so much personal revelation could be brought about by a song?

The melody comes to an end. I become aware of applause filling the air. King Larongar elbows me in the arm. “Well, my boy? Have you ever heard anything more lovely? The girl was gods-gifted at her christening, as all my children were. Ilsevel’s gift is by far the most valuable.”

Are those tears I see in the king’s eyes as he speaks of his daughter? “She really is extraordinary,” I admit, and realize there are tears on my own cheeks too. I hastily dash them away.

“Perhaps,” Larongar says, “we will speak more on the subject of Ilsevel’s extraordinariness on the morrow, eh? But for now, more wine!”

Dancers are summoned, jugglers, tumblers, and other performers to gad about and make themselves amusing for the king and his guests. But I cannot get Ilsevel’s song out of my head. Only, it’s strange . . . though it’s her voice I hear, echoing and sweet . . . when I close my eyes, it’s another face I see in the darkness behind my lids. Gazing up at me with strange, earnest eyes. One blue. One gold.

“Deeper Dark devour me, I thought it would never end!”

Sul collapses on my bed and stretches hugely as he utters a yowling yawn. I yank the pillow out from under his feet. “I’d prefer not to smell the grime off the soles of your shoes while I sleep today, brother.”

“A better aroma than anything else you’ll find in this death-stinking world.” Sul angles his head to leer at me. “At least that ghastly Larongar has given you a decent-sized room. Mine is nowhere near this large. Hael’s is basically a cupboard.”

I turn to my captain, who has taken a seat at a little table near the fireplace and pours herself a goblet of wine. She took no drink during the banquet as she was officially on duty, and only now allows herself any refreshment. “Are your accommodations insufficient, Hael?”

She gives me a look. “I didn’t journey to the human realm with the hope of luxury in mind. I, at least, am on a mission.”

“Sweet Hael,” Sul says, rolling over and propping his chin in his hands, “let me assure you, the mission is forefront in my mind. Didn’t you see me making nice to the grisly human wenches throughout the evening? I suffered hard for the sake of the crown!”

Hael casts him a scathing look before addressing me. “What did you make of our host and his daughters?”

“Of our host, I think rather little.” I accept the cup she offers me. “He is what I expected. I wouldn’t turn my back on him in the dark. Of his daughters, however . . .” I take a gulp, leaving the thought hanging.

Sul sits up on the bed. “His daughters are unexpectedly toothsome morsels, aren’t they? Especially that Ilsevel. I’ve never been particularly inclined toward humans before, but looking at her, I begin to understand the mountain troll penchant for devouring human maidens.” He runs his tongue lasciviously over his teeth.

“Watch it,” Hael growls. “You’ll get drool on your shirt.” She turns back to me. “And you, my king? What was your opinion?”

“I’ll admit they are . . . rather more than I anticipated.” I stroll to the window, gazing down on the courtyard below. Clouds have rolled in to cover the stars, and I find the sky more bearable from under their canopy. It’s still several hours before dawn. I should try to get some sleep, for humans go about their business by daylight, and I will need to act accordingly. Now all the initial niceties have been gotten out of the way, negotiations will begin in earnest. I hope to have the matter settled in a few days.

“So, you will pursue the alliance?” Hael persists.

I face my friends, swirling the drink in my cup. “I’m not sure I have much choice. Up until now, Larongar has been firm in all his correspondence—he will not send his Miphates to us until he can be sure the threat of Prince Ruvaen has been dealt with. We must give him what he wants before he’ll give back.”

“Then why should we deal with him at all?” Sul demands.

“Do you have some other trick up your sleeve to save Mythanar?”

Neither my brother nor my captain answer. They exchange glances then look away quickly. I continue, saying what they both already know too well: “The prophecy is going to come about. One way or another, sooner or later. But all signs indicate sooner. Unless drastic action is taken, all the Under Realm is at risk. Fae magic can do nothing against that which stirs in the darkness. We need the power of the human mages. We need the Miphates.”

Even Sul’s expression melts into one of solemn study. He cannot deny the truth I speak. Our circumstances are too dire for his habitual mirth.

“But Vor,” Hael says, forgoing my title and slipping back into the familiarity we once knew as children, before I became her king and she, my captain. “Do you need to make a marriage bargain? Why can we not simply trade—our warriors for Larongar’s Miphates? Why does a marriage need to be entered into?”

Sul snorts. “Have you met the human king? He positively reeks of duplicity.”

“Sul is right.”

“What was that?” My brother cups a hand around his ear. “Did I hear those sweet words correctly? Or were they but a dream?”

Ignoring him, I look down at the last of the wine swirling in my cup. “Larongar is not to be trusted. Not even to honor a signed agreement. Written bindings do not bind humans as they do our kind. The magic of the written word doesn’t affect them in the same way. But if there is a marriage, Larongar might be compelled to honor his word if the safety of his own daughter is in question.”

“What you need is a hostage, not a bride.”

Hael’s statement sends a stone sinking in my gut. She’s not wrong. “It cannot be helped. And I will . . . I will do what I can to make the arrangement agreeable for the girl.”

“Oh, no one doubts that, brother mine.” Sul smirks. Hael shoots him a warning look. “What?” he demands. “Have you seen what passes for men around here? Our dear Vor is positively magnificent by comparison! Surely his blushing bride will be more than happy to be the recipient of his largess.”

Hael sets her goblet down on the table. “But are you certain, my king, truly certain? Will such a marriage not be too great a burden to bear for a lifetime?”

I smile dryly. “So, you weren’t charmed by the pretty Ilsevel, I take it.”

“The question is not whether I was charmed. You’re the one marrying her. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought perhaps you found your attention drawn a different direction.”

“Indeed?” Sul rubs his hands together. “Please, tell me it wasn’t the king’s mistress! Or rather, tell me it was. I beg you.”

“Shut up, Sul.” Hael growls.

My brother snickers and slips off the bed. He saunters to the table, takes the seat opposite Hael and pours himself a measure of wine. “I will seal these luscious lips of mine, sweet Hael, but only after I’ve made one last point: If our king is indeed determined to shackle himself to a human till death doth sunder all spousal ties, he’d best be sure he picks the right bride.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask sharply.

“I think you know what I mean.” Sul takes a sip, looking at me over the rim of his cup, then lowers it and wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand. “If it’s a hostage bride you need, we must be certain Larongar actually cares for her wellbeing.”

“A father would naturally care for his daughter.”

“To be sure. But most fathers don’t seat their eldest daughters at the far end of the table, nearly out of sight. Or keep them shut away in convents far from court. Or constantly push the younger daughter to the forefront.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“You know very well what I’m saying.”

“Pretend I don’t. Spell it out for me. Exactly.”

Hael’s voice, quiet and rock-hard, interrupts whatever snide remark Sul is about to make. “You need to choose Ilsevel. Not Faraine.”

I lift my cup to my lips only to find I’ve already drained it. I scowl at the dregs.

“You’ve said it yourself,” my captain continues. “Written agreements do not bind humans as they bind us. You must have adequate collateral. We cannot send our warriors to give their lives pointlessly in another man’s war.”

“They’ll give their lives for Mythanar,” I say. “We all would die for Mythanar.”

Sul tilts his chair back on two legs, balancing precariously. “Picture this, brother mine: Say you lead us all in glorious battle, and we pour out our blood upon these human fields. What happens when you return? When you summon Larongar to send his Miphates? What happens when he answers, Thanks, friend Vor, for all those bodies you sent to fertilize my crops. But I’m keeping my mages safe and close. What then?”

“Then we remind him of his promises.”

“Promises which mean nothing to a human.”

“Then we bid his daughter to compel him.”

“The daughter he loves and cares for? Or the one he obviously despises?”

I put my back to them, scowling out the window. All is very still and cold on the other side of the leaded glass.

Then, suddenly, movement. It draws my gaze to a building on the far side of the yard. A door opens, and out steps a little figure, cloaked and hooded.

“Come, now,” Sul says. “You’re not going to try to convince me you’ve fallen in love, are you? After one short ride and one small turn of a dance?”

The figure passes beneath a torch. Flickering orange light gleams against the silver threads decorating the cloak’s hem. Even from this distance, I recognize that pattern: the coiling dragon.

“Vor? Don’t leave us in suspense like this.” Sul snaps his fingers several times. “What’s your answer? Will you take the scrumptious little Ilsevel and save us all? Or will you doom us to prophetic oblivion? I mean, I understand it’s difficult to think about doom and salvation and all those unpleasantries when you’re following the inclinations of your—ahem—heart.”

“I’m going out.” I turn abruptly, facing the two of them. They watch me too closely, Sul with that knowing smirk of his, Hael with her grim, stern brow. “I need air.” Before they can protest, I stride for the door, fling it wide, and escape the room, tossing back over my shoulder as I go, “And if either of you tries to follow me, I’ll grind your bones to fine powder.”

In four quick steps, I cross the receiving room, push open the door, and step out into the dark passage beyond. Sul’s voice trails behind me as I go: “Good talk, brother! Can’t wait to find out if the whims of romance mean us to live or die!”