1

ILSEVEL

24 hours earlier

A trickle of goat blood runs across the age-cracked sacrificial stone. I watch its slow progress, oddly fascinated. It oozes to the edge of the slab, seems to pause for a moment, before spilling over in a gory streak to finally pool in the gutter cut around the altar’s base. A stink of copper mingles with the sting of incense in my nostrils. My lip curls faintly, hidden behind my demure prayer veil.

Then I draw a deep breath, close my eyes, and brace for what I know must come next.

It hits like a blow—a whole chorus of holy prayersong erupting all around me, flooding my senses. Wincing, I bow my head. I can only hope I look solemn and reverent rather than nauseated. Of course, in that assembly of two dozen devout voices, there’s one that is just slightly off-key. That’s the one I hear, singled out from all others. He might as well be singing a personal solo just for my benefit. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Not for the first time, I bite back curses aimed at the very gods who blessed me with the gift of song on the day of my christening. I’m pretty sure they were having a laugh when they did it, amused at the prospect of how often my ears would be offended by less than perfect pitch. It’s a useless gift as far as I’m concerned. Sure, people like to hear me sing. Sure, I can play any instrument I put my hand to. So what? Anyone could learn to do the same with a little bit of effort. I don’t see why the gods felt the need to get involved . . . unless it was to spite my father.

They tell me that King Larongar went on a quest when he was young—back when he was just a prince, and a younger son at that, not the sovereign he is today. Supposedly he climbed to the summit of Mount Helesatra, defeated the dragon which sleeps there, and claimed the right of gods-gifts for his future offspring. No doubt he hoped the gods would dole out useful sorts of gifts which he could use according to his ambitions. A war gift, especially. A gift for strategy would have been acceptable as well. Even an affinity for spellcraft would do. Something exciting. Something worthy of divine bequeathal.

Instead he got the lot of us: my older brother, Theodre, who is beautiful as the day; my older sister, Faraine, who gets headaches from other people’s emotions; and my younger sister, Aurae, who dances like a dream.

Then there’s me. When I sing or play an instrument, people see pretty pictures in their heads. Worth a little mountain-climbing and dragon-slaying? Perhaps not.

To say my father was disappointed as each new gift manifested, doesn’t come close to communicating the level of disgust we inspired in his heart. At least my gift he’s always found a bit more to his liking; he can trot me out to perform for courtly visitors on command.

In the end, however, I could only serve one ultimate purpose in his eye: a bride. A commodity to be bought and sold, a choice fruit with which to tempt other kings into alliance.

Which is exactly what happened. Which is exactly why I find myself in my present position, kneeling before this altar, watching the remains of a slaughtered goat burn on a blood-stained altar stone. Completing the rites of my Maiden’s Journey before my new husband comes to claim me and carry me off to his kingdom.

I’m supposed to be singing along with the priests. This service is for me, after all, a sacred and significant moment. But I won’t sing. I’ll do no more than mouth the words. Peering out from the gauzy folds of my prayer veil, I study the statue of the god I am here to petition. Lamruil’s visage, carved in a block of black marble, is all hard edges and severity, his unsettlingly long teeth bared in a grimace. The God of Darkness—the first of the seven gods to whom I must make sacrifices in preparation for my wedding. His is not the most cheerful shrine to visit while on pilgrimage, but it’s an important one. Certain things are about to happen between me and my intended bridegroom in the darkness of my bridal chamber . . .

Hastily I drop my gaze from the god’s stoney stare and squeeze my eyes shut. But that’s no use; my future husband looms large in my mind. Massive, rock-skinned. A veritable mountain of a man. Not human; that would be unpleasant enough.

No, the husband my father picked for me is a troll.

“The high priest knows you’re not singing.”

Startled, I turn to my sister, who kneels beside me at the altar rail. Aurae’s face, what I can see of it behind the filmy fabric of her veil, is the picture of piety. But her eyes flash, catching me in a quick, sidelong glance before shifting to the high priest. He stands on the far side of the altar, his arms, stained with sacrificial blood, upstretched over his head in a great V. His hard gaze is fastened on me, however. Disapproval scores every wrinkle of his ancient brow. Though he continues leading his brothers in prayersong, there’s nothing worshipful about that expression.

“He can’t see me through my veil,” I whisper back a little uncertainly.

“I don’t think it matters.” Aurae leans closer so that she can speak into my ear. “Please, Ilsevel, try to sing. You look as though you’re preparing for your funeral rather than your wedding.”

“Maybe I am. For all we know, trolls devour their brides on their wedding nights.”

Aurae dips her chin to hide a smile, though I’m not entirely joking. “The Shadow King seemed courteous enough,” she persists. “Faraine, at least, believes he will make a good husband.”

“Let Faraine marry him then,” I mutter. There’d been a brief point in my hurried courtship when I had hoped my terrifying suitor would choose my elder sister instead of me. I’d seen the two of them dance together on the first night after his arrival. He had seemed unusually taken with quiet, serious Faraine.

Ultimately, however, he knew he would be better off allying himself with me: Larongar Cyhorn’s favorite daughter. The apple of the king’s eye.

I squeeze my prayer-clasped hands tightly, my knuckles standing out white. It doesn’t pay to be the favorite of a tyrant. Not in the long run. I’ve known all along my fate would be something like this. It’s simply the way of it for a woman like me, a king’s daughter. Princess . . . Gods, how I hate that title! A princess is not a person, not an individual. She is a representation. Of power, of loyalty. Of entire nations when need requires. She is an instrument to be used at the discretion of mighty men. Men like my father. Men like the Shadow King.

“Why are you grimacing like that?” Brow puckered, Aurae pushes her prayer veil back to study me more closely.

“I’m not grimacing.” I firm my lips and jut my chin at the priest. “We’re praying here, remember?”

“Ilsie . . .” she begins in a warning tone, but I don’t hear whatever she’s about to say, for a plucking at my sleeve steals my attention. I turn from her to the round-cheeked face of a young novitiate, who has just appeared at my other shoulder. He holds out a slip of paper. Frowning, I accept it, turn it over in my fingers. Who would send me a message in the middle of this sacred ceremony? Certainly not Wulfram, captain of my armed escort. He is far too devout to risk the high priest’s wrath.

Aware of the priest’s gimlet eyes fixed upon me, I drop the note behind the altar rail, flick it open, and hastily scan the contents by the dancing light of the sacrificial blaze:

Ilsevel, I have come for you. Leave the chapel at once and meet me in the temple courtyard.

Artoris

My heart skips a beat. Artoris! Here, at Ashryn Shrine? Folding the note, I press it against my breast, unable to think, even to breathe. For weeks now I’ve teetered between hope and fear, wondering whether the message I sent would ever reach him. But he’s here. Artoris is here, all the way from Evisar Citadel. My prayers—my true prayers, not the ones I pretended to sing before this bloody altar, but those I whispered into my pillow each night—are answered.

I might just get out of this betrothal in one piece after all.

Aurae, no longer trying to pay attention to the service, pushes back her prayer veil to stare at me frankly from her wide doe-eyes. “Ilsie, what is it?”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together. Now is not the time for explanations. Half-afraid the high priest will call down the power of his dark god to smite me on the spot, I rise, make a hasty holy sign with one hand, and back down the long chapel nave, head bent, hands folded. No one moves to interfere with me. The priests go on singing, and Aurae remains kneeling at the altar rail, watching me go. I reach the shrinehouse door unhindered.

Then I turn and race out into the glare of sunset. I lift my hand, shading my dazzled eyes. How many hours have I knelt in that dark chapel? The whole day seems to have passed. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, for that red sun now sets on my last day of captivity. Artoris is here. I will be free—free of my father, free of the Shadow King. Free of marriages and alliances and being treated like a valuable broodmare. I will flee this place and never return.

A smile breaks across my face. Though I want to spread my arms like wings and simply fly from the hilltop, I force my gaze down to the temple complex, built on the lower slopes of the shrine hill. A series of peak-roofed dwellings stand in a semi-circle around a central well. A dozen or so horses, all tacked to ride, fill the yard, but my eye goes immediately to a powerful white stallion which paces back and forth, hooves ringing against the paving stones. This fine beast is mounted by a broad-shouldered figure in black mage’s robes. Though his hood is thrown back to reveal his face, I’m too far away to discern features. But I recognize him: Artoris Kelfaren. The man I’ve held in my heart these last seven years, in defiance of all my father’s wishes.

The next moment I’m racing down the narrow stairs leading from the gloomy chapel of Lamruil. It’s like I’m escaping darkness itself and my grim, terrible future as the Shadow King’s bride. Hope surges in my veins, and I run and run, heedless of any danger. A new, unknown future awaits, and I’m ready to meet it with open arms.

I’m panting so hard by the time I near the bottom steps, I can’t even shout his name. Artoris does not see me. He has his back to me, his attention fixed on the door of the guest house where I and my entourage have been housed during our stay at the temple. Just as I reach the base of the stairs, the door opens, and ten solemn figures emerge. Not priests—no, these figures are not clad in priestly cassocks but in bloodred cloaks, long and sweeping, their faces hidden by deep hoods.

My pace slows to a stop. Why did Artoris bring so many men? In the weeks since I sent my desperate letter, when I dared to envision his arrival, I always saw us making a covert escape. Just the two of us, racing off into the sunset. The daydream certainly didn’t include a full company of crimson-cloaked mages in tow.

“Is it done?” Artoris demands. His voice is a cold bark.

The foremost of the hooded figures bows its head, wordless.

“Excellent. Now we must find the princess, and—” He breaks off when the crimson cloak raises a gauntleted hand and points. Directly at me.

Artoris turns in his saddle, eyes flashing.

For a moment the air goes still. It’s as though the whole world has inhaled sharply. I’m caught in his stare, in that space of existence between us which seems to stretch across the long, lonely years. Years during which I’ve had nothing to hold on to but a few secret letters and my own determination to thwart my father’s control. Years in which this man before me has been little more than an idea in my mind, not a living, breathing person.

He’s aged since last I saw him. His face, still square and handsome, has acquired a new sternness that doesn’t fit on the remembered face of the young man I knew. Seven years makes a difference. I suppose it has in both of us.

“The beard is new.”

The words are out, hanging in the air between us, before I can think better of them. My voice seems much too loud, echoing against the solemn stone buildings. Gods, was that really the best I could come up with? The first words spoken to the man I’ve cherished in my most forbidden dreams these seven long years? Too late to take them back now.

I motion to my own face, tracing a line around my mouth and chin. “You look very . . . mage-like.”

Artoris blinks. His stallion paces uneasily beneath him.

“It’s not bad,” I hasten to add. “I’ve never been kissed by a man with a beard.” I smile and tilt my head a little to one side. “I might let you give it a try.”

His lips part. No sound emerges, just a little stream of cold air. Then suddenly he dismounts in a whirl of heavy mage’s robes and strides across the courtyard. He seems much bigger, much older, and I take an uncertain step back. Before I can take another, his arms are around me, crushing me to him. “Ilsevel!” his voice is rough, speaking into my hair as his hand presses my head against his chest. “At last!”

The relief in his voice is enough to make my own stiffened limbs relax a little. I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in. I used to love the smell of him, that combination of balsam and cinnamon. After he was sent in disgrace from my father’s house, I found an old handkerchief of his and kept it under my pillow for years, pulling it out every now and then to catch trace remnants of his scent.

A different aroma fills my nostrils now: something cold and a little bit sulfurous. Almost . . . rotten. It’s unpleasant enough to make me want to jerk back. But I don’t. I used to feel safe in his arms, protected. I lean in now, eager to reclaim that feeling, and refuse to acknowledge the way his grip feels more like a cage.

Finally he pushes me from him just enough to look down into my face. Close up, with the last of the sunset glow bathing his features, I can see something of the young man I once knew. His deep-set eyes are the same mix of brown and green, framed in dark lashes. His features are even, his jaw square and strong, emphasized now by the addition of that beard. He’s built like a warrior, though he spends his days bowed over great tomes of magic, studying the secret lore of the Miphates. An atmosphere of mystery always surrounded him, which I, as a young girl, found utterly irresistible.

He was six years my senior back when I fell for him. I was just fifteen, and my gods-gift had newly manifested. I don’t remember anything of that time. They tell me I experienced a severe reaction to the sudden outpouring of power and collapsed unconscious. When my father’s court mages were unable to revive me, he sent for Mage Morthiel, the most powerful Miphato of our time.

Morthiel brought with him a promising acolyte, young Artoris Kelfaren.

I don’t know what magic Morthiel used on me. My memories of the aged Miphato consist of cold hands, wrinkled skin, and an unsettlingly deep voice. But Artoris—he was by my side when I first woke from my long sleep. There he remained in the weeks that followed, as my strength slowly returned. And I loved him. Oh, how I loved him! My first love, my only love. He was so wise, so handsome, so dangerous, and so . . . forbidden. I would have given him everything he asked of me.

It was some weeks after my recovery that we were discovered entangled together in my bed, my clothing all in disarray. Father had Artoris dragged out into the yard and bound to a pillory. I begged. I pleaded. I protested that nothing had happened, nothing that mattered insofar as the king’s ultimate plans for me. Father merely laughed and said he would cut off Artoris’s manhood and give it to me as a keepsake. He would have done it too, were it not for Mage Morthiel.

As it was, Morthiel convinced Larongar to give the young man a lashing, then turn him back over to the Miphates. That he succeeded is testimony to the aged Miphato’s power and influence with the king. Artoris was given twelve lashes. I was forced to stand and watch each blow as it was delivered, to listen to each cry as it ripped from my lover’s lips.

Morthiel left with his acolyte the very next day, never to return. My last glimpse of Artoris was from my bedchamber window where I leaned out as far as I dared, watching as his pain-hunched figure rode out from Beldroth Castle. I hoped he would look back at me just once. He never did.

Since then we’ve exchanged in secret no more than a handful of letters. Each time Artoris’s ink-scrawled words assured me of his ongoing and ardent devotion. With those words, I fed my flame of passion, determined not to let it dim with either time or distance. I would show my father that he couldn’t break my spirit, neither with laughter nor with lashes.

Looking up into Artoris’s handsome face now, I try to recall some of that burning feeling which had raged so hot in my veins. I know it’s him and yet . . . he feels like such a stranger.

“Gods!” he exclaims, his eyes roving over my face. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.” He grabs my hand and draws it reverently to his lips. A shiver runs up my arm, but I don’t pull away. “When I received your letter, I set out from the citadel at once to meet you here. Nothing could keep me back.”

A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “And what did your master think of that?”

He frowns. “My master?”

“Morthiel. Mage Morthiel.”

A shadow seems to pass over his face, darkening his eyes. “I am my own man and make my own choices. When I heard of your impending marriage to the Shadow King, I knew what I must do. I knew I could not leave you to be sold off to a monster.”

Still smiling, I glance beyond his shoulder. There the crimson-cloaked figures stand in a row, hands folded, heads bowed. There are so many of them. Surely they could not have ridden from the citadel without Mage Morthiel’s knowledge. I look up at Artoris again, my lips parting to question him further.

But suddenly his mouth is on mine. Hard hands grip my upper arms, pulling me to him, then one of his hands slips behind my head, fingers digging in, pulling my prayer veil askew. Shock races through me, but I shake it off, try to lose myself in his kiss like I once did. Something isn’t right. His lips are too demanding, too hungry, and his tongue presses between my teeth, filling up my mouth. This feels more like an attack than an embrace.

I push away, gasping for breath, and quickly slip my fingers over his mouth to keep him from lunging at me again. “Careful!” I say with another laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all. “Captain Wulfram will see.” Where is the captain anyway? He and his whole company of armed men should not be ignoring the sudden arrival of Miphates on the temple grounds. Isn’t it their job to protect me?

A deep chuckle rumbles in Artoris’s chest. “Not to worry, sweet princess. No one is going to stop us now.” With those words, he turns and beckons. One of the crimson cloaks strides forward, leading a chestnut mare. “Quickly now,” Artoris says, taking the reins and turning to me. “We ride for Evisar at once.”

“Evisar?” I blink, surprised. When I’d dreamed of Artoris coming to whisk me away, I’d certainly not envisioned us returning to the citadel. The Miphates never welcome outsiders into their secret spaces. “Won’t Morthiel send me straight back to my father?”

Artoris grins. It’s a subtle, rather sly expression, both like and unlike the devilish smile of the young man in my memory. “Morthiel doesn’t answer to the king.” Before I can parse through this enigmatic statement, he presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me toward the mare. “We must hurry. I have many enemies, and word of my arrival in these parts will travel quickly. The sooner we are away from here the better.”

I’m just opening my mouth to protest, to remind him that I have personal belongings I must gather, to question the wisdom of this plan, which suddenly feels too rushed, too forced.

Before I can utter a sound, however, a voice rings from above: “Ilsie!”

I whirl on heel. My sister descends the shrinehouse stairs. Behind her, priests of Lamruil gather around the dark opening to the chapel. It’s too dark by now to see their faces, but I can feel their unwillingness to venture out, to draw any nearer to the mysterious cloaked figures below. Aurae, by contrast, hurries in a billow of white veils, looking ghostly in the light of the pale lanterns hung from poles to light her way. “Ilsie, wait!” she cries.

I pull away from Artoris, trying not to notice the way his hands snatch after me. Hurrying toward my sister, I arrive at the base of the stairs just in time for her to throw herself into my arms. She’s trembling, frightened, her gentle eyes wide and fearful. “Ilsevel, what’s going on?” She gazes over my shoulder at the cloaked figures, now mounted and waiting. “Who are these people?”

Aurae was only ten years old when Artoris visited Beldroth. She didn’t know anything about our relationship at the time, and I never shared with her the secret letters I received or revealed my feelings for the handsome mage. I hardly know how to explain now, especially not with Artoris’s eyes burning into the back of my head.

“Aurae,” I say instead, taking her hand and squeezing it hard. “You know I can’t marry the Shadow King. I just can’t.”

She glances at Artoris, waiting beside the mare. “What are you saying?” Her voice is tight and low. “Ilsie, you’re not . . . you’re not leaving with this man, are you?”

I smile. If it’s a little forced, I tell myself it’s simply because I hate to hurt my sister, hate to leave her in this way. “I love him,” I say simply. “I’ve loved him for seven years now but was forced to keep it secret.”

Aurae shakes her head. “You can’t be serious. Who is he?”

“It doesn’t matter!” I glance back at Artoris, meet his gaze. His face is so hard and stern, it makes my heart drop in my chest. But this is it. This is my only chance to escape. And with time, surely everything I once felt for him will return. Such feelings don’t just disappear into thin air. “I love him.” If I say the words with enough conviction, I can make them true once more. “And he’s here now. I’m leaving with him, and I won’t be coming back.”

“But the alliance.” Aurae reaches out, gripping my forearm as though she can hold me here. “You can’t abandon the alliance. You can’t abandon our people!”

My stomach knots. “Skewer the alliance,” I growl. “Do you really think those trolls are the means to our people’s salvation? Do you really think Father intends to use them to stop this infernal war of his? It’s only going to get worse. He and the Shadow King will find new excuses to go to battle, and I won’t be part of it. I won’t be a playing piece in their games.”

Aurae stares at me as though she doesn’t know me. And she doesn’t, not really. No more than I know her. We only know each other in the roles we’ve been forced to play, in the parts that we’ve been molded into every day of our lives. Sister, daughter, princess, pawn. The real me, the real her—those are mysteries as yet undiscovered. Perhaps we will never know each other truly.

But I must take this chance to discover my own true self. It might be the only chance I get.

Aurae’s lip quivers. Her grip on my arm tightens for a moment. “Ilsie, you won’t find freedom by running away.”

“I won’t find it any better by staying.” The sharpness of my answer makes her wince, and I immediately regret my words. “Please, Aurae,” I continue in a gentler tone, drawing her toward me. “I cannot spend my life the property of any man.”

“Ilsevel.” Artoris’s voice snaps like a whip behind me. “It’s time to go.”

I wrench free of my sister’s grasp. She utters a little sob and reaches for me, but I spin on heel and hasten to the red mare, accepting Artoris’s leg-up into the saddle. Despite my skirts, I swing my leg over the mare’s broad back. It feels good to sit astride a horse once more, not carted along in a carriage like precious goods. I cast a last look around the courtyard, still expecting Captain Wulfram and his men to make their appearance, weapons drawn. I see only a handful of priests and novitiates, watching from windows, wordless and unwilling to interfere.

“Stay close to me,” Artoris says, mounting his stallion and urging it up beside my beast. “We ride hard through the night. No turning back now.”

He lifts his hand, signaling to his strange, silent companions. Then he spurs his horse into motion, and my mare surges into tandem stride with his. We thunder from the temple yard. I spare only a single glance back to where my sister stands beneath a solitary lamppost. The wind wafts her prayer veil back from her small, pale face. Tears roll in silver trails down her cheeks.

I face forward into the evening gloom and ride on. On to new life. On to freedom.