Chapter 5
ILSEVEL
I open my eyes, blinking up at the canopy of my bed.
A familiar sight, so familiar, one almost does not notice it, any more than one notices the color of grass or the presence of servants lurking on the fringes of a banquet hall.
I’ve opened my eyes to this same sight innumerable times and expect I will continue to do so for innumerable wakings to come.
And yet something about the image picked out in silk overhead strikes me with sudden interest. Bathed in early morning light slipping through a long crack in the heavy window drapes, it depicts a pattern of pale unicorns in a field of purple flowers, simultaneously exaggerated and simplistic.
The unicorn, repeated again and again in slightly different configurations, turns its head back over its shoulder, its neck arched, its tale a long, skinny whip of flesh with a tassel of fur at the end of it.
That’s not right, I think dully. Where that thought comes from, I cannot say; it’s a nagging feeling, a discomfort.
I drag my eyes from the unicorns to the flowers instead.
These I like better. Their petals unfurl from golden centers, and, despite the flattened colors, whoever worked this wonder of stitchery managed to capture a sense of glowing aura in that contrast of gold and purple threads.
Ilsevels, I think, again without certainty why. Ilsevel blossoms.
It occurs to me that I’ve slept under this same canopy every night of my life since I was little more than a toddling babe. Why have I not had it replaced long ago? It’s much too childish for a woman’s boudoir.
I try to move, a simple shift of shoulders and hips.
My muscles cry out in a protest of pain which shocks me so hard, I close my eyes again and draw a sharp breath.
Why do I ache so? I cannot recall. Did I go for a particularly long ride yesterday?
A foxhunt, perhaps? Though I try to conjure some image, no clear memory will form.
I cast back further, the day before, or the day before that, perhaps.
It’s all a shadowy blur. The only thing that comes to mind with any clarity is the vision of my father, standing before his gathered court, arms upraised, declaring in a loud voice that terms had at last been agreed upon and a marriage bargain struck.
That I, his second and most-favored daughter, should wed the Shadow King.
Soon after the Shadow King himself had taken my hand, leading me in a dance before the watchful eyes of both his troll entourage and my father’s favored lackeys.
As he guided me through a turn, his deep voice had rumbled close to my ear, “I feel I should officially ask you: will you accept my hand in marriage, Princess?”
“Do I have any choice in the matter?” I’d replied furiously, flicking my gaze to meet his.
“Yes,” he’d answered with great solemnity, his strange, rock-hewn face difficult to read. “You have a choice. Say the word, and I will gather my people and leave your father’s house at once.”
I wanted to believe him; but I knew better.
My wishes were never forefront in the mind of any man who wished to use me as a playing piece in his life’s ambitious game.
I glanced sideways at my father, seated in his place at the head of the banquet table, watching me intently with his single eye.
He loved me, to be sure; everyone knew I was his favorite little darling.
That didn’t mean I dared put a hair out of line.
The dance ended. I looked the Shadow King straight in the eye. “I will accept your hand, King Vor,” I said.
From there everything else fades into confusion.
Did that memory take place only last night?
It must have, for no further memory will unfold in my mind.
My stomach knots with dread, even as my body aches.
So this is truly to be my fate—married off to a monstrous bridegroom, sent away to some dark, shadowed realm without sky, without wind, without sun.
My father had better have buried me alive in the family crypt.
At least then I would have met my end among my own kind.
Again I try to gather my strength, to sit up in bed.
I can’t just lie here, after all, and let fate swallow me whole!
I must do something, take action. Plead with my father or .
. . or perhaps run away. Yes! That’s what I’ll do.
I’m not going to lie here, passive and meek, while hard-hearted men dispose of my life as they will.
I’ll sneak out to the stables, find a horse, and ride for the horizon. Only . . .
Only every slight movement of my limbs sends bolts of agony shooting through each muscle. When I stop moving, and the pain recedes, a sluggish fog comes over me, filling my head and trickling down my spine.
“You’d better lie still. It’ll be easier for your recovery in the end.”
My heart quickens. That voice—I know that voice.
And it’s the last one I would have hoped to hear, speaking from the shadowed place close to my head.
I try to turn toward it, but my body simply won’t answer.
My eyes swivel in their sockets, however, and then, very slowly, as though responding to a command from miles away, my head turns as well.
Even this slight movement causes pain, and I bite down hard on a breath.
Lyria. My bastard half-sister. She sits in a low chair close to the bed, her knees drawn up so that she looks like a cat curled up in the seat.
She’s a beautiful woman, like her blighted mother, my father’s mistress, Lady Fyndra.
Golden hair, pale eyes, delicate features, watchful expression.
Yet somehow there’s something unmistakably like Larongar in the line of her jaw, her brow.
His brutish features have no place in so fine a face, and yet he is there, more prominent now that she is of age.
There had been some effort to cover up the king’s indiscretion by marrying his mistress off to Lord Arakian, but as time went on, and Lyria matured, there was no hiding the truth.
So they shipped Lyria away to Cornaith, where she could no longer be a reminder to Queen Mereth of her husband’s faithlessness.
In the end she was brought back, however. My father prefers to keep his assets close, and even a half-daughter may prove useful to him someday.
A jolt of pure anger stabs through my heart.
Lyria and I were dear friends in childhood, but I never suspected the truth of our connection.
When it came out at last, it felt like a betrayal, like everything I’d believed about our relationship was rendered false and dirty and ugly.
I’d hated Lyria then; still hate her, in fact.
At least I think I do.
For some reason I’m not quite certain anymore.
I feel as though I’ve been away on a long, terrible journey into some dark world, only to find myself looking upon the first friendly face I’ve seen in ages.
Even Lyria’s face must be welcome under such circumstances, and though I may resent it, I am strangely glad to see her.
But I don’t want that feeling, and my brow knots in a scowl as I combat it.
Lyria snorts, one eyebrow tipping wryly. “You could pickle lemons with that face,” she says. Her feet uncurling from underneath her, she rises from her seat and approaches my bed, resting the back of her hand against my forehead. “How are you feeling?”
I open my mouth, but no ready words will come. My throat is tight and dry, and I’m obliged to force out any sound. “Awful.” One would never guess at the nature of my gods-gift to hear such a sorry croak.
Lyria nods and turns to the bedside table where a pewter pitcher and cup sit in waiting.
She pours out a measure for me before helping me sit up enough to take a sip.
I find myself wanting to ask, “Is it purified?” but stop the words before they cross my lips.
Why would I ask such a thing? I frown, even as the water passes over my tongue.
It doesn’t taste right, somehow. Too earthy, too . . . mortal.
With a sigh, I collapse back on my pillows.
Even that little effort to lift my head and shoulders sent radiating aches and pains shooting down my spine, and it’s a relief to lie still again.
I observe my blanket-draped body. For an instant, a strange vision passes over my eyes, and I seem to see my blankets replaced with dark, living, writhing shadow, shot-through with red veins of pulsing energy.
It comes and goes in a blink, leaving behind nothing more than a shade of horror. Some residual nightmare image.
Lyria steps back, her expression rather too knowing for comfort. I shift my gaze to scowl at her again. “What are you doing here?” I demand ungraciously.
Her lips curve in a smile. “Good morning to you too, Ilsevel dear.”
I bristle. “Where is Faraine?” With those words, a sudden overwhelming desire to see my older sister grips me.
Not my mother, gods help me. No, Faraine was always the comforting presence in my life, not the cold queen who merely endured my existence.
Faraine always knew how to ease my troubles, how to comfort my unsettled spirit.
Whether it was part of her own gods-gift or simply Faraine’s gentle, nurturing nature, I don’t know.
I just know that I want her . . . not this half-sister traitor who still stands over me, chewing the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.
Lyria narrows her eyes. “What exactly do you remember?”
My frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“Your last memory.” She leans in a little closer, her face bathed in the morning light coming through the curtain slit. “What is it? What do you last recall before waking up just now?”