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 lemonswith 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?”
Though I don’t care to oblige her, the question nags at my brain. I attempt once more to cast back through the cloud and fog and discomfort, only to land once more on the night of my betrothal announcement and that dance with the Shadow King. Other than that . . . there’s nothing more than flashes. I seem to see myself taking off a delicate, beaded veil, pressing it into Faraine’s hand, followed by another image of me kneeling before a bloody altar in a dark chamber, my younger sister, Aurae, kneeling in prayer beside me. There are eruptions of fire, screams, high and blood-curdling. Then blackness.
I shake my head. A terrible pain lances through my abdomen, and, when I look down, I half-expect to find a gaping wound.
“Easy,” Lyria murmurs, bowing over me again and smoothing hair back from my forehead. “Easy, easy, don’t distress yourself. Just try to call to mind your last clear memory. Nothing more.”
“The betrothal,” I growl through a clenched jaw.
Lyria nods. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip for a moment as her eyes skitter away from mine. Then, in a soothing voice I don’t like in the least, she says, “Ilsevel, I have some difficult things to tell you. You’ve had some adventures since that night, and you were gravely hurt. You’ve been recovering, and part of that recovery involved dulling your memory. That’s why it hurts to think back. But I’m going to tell you what I safely can now.”
A stir of dread moves in my veins. I try to sit up again, ignoring the pain, even when it makes me dizzy. “Where is Faraine?” I demand. My voice sounds childish, even in my own ears. “I want Faraine!”
“Faraine is gone,” Lyria says.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“She has . . . she has married the Shadow King. In your place.”
“What?”
I listen, aghast, as my bastard half-sister fills me in on recent events. On how I was betrothed to the Shadow King, underwent the traditional heartfasting ceremony, and was subsequently sent on my Maiden’s Journey, with Aurae as my attendant. But when we stopped to make offerings at the Temple of Lamruil,there was an attack—fae raiders, seeking to destroy the alliance between Larongar and the troll king, or so it is believed.
“We thought you were dead,” Lyria says. “So Father . . . he couldn’t let the alliance be compromised. He sent Faraine instead.”
There’s more to that story than she’s letting on, I can tell. But for the moment I don’t press. “Poor Faraine,” I murmur, even as a part of me wonders if Faraine is to be pitied after all. I saw the way the Shadow King looked at my older sister, how they danced together on that first night of his arrival when he came courting me. There had been something in that look—something which didn’t make me jealous, exactly, but did fill me with a strange discomfort. As though I did not quite belong in whatever was taking place between them. It did not soften my opinion of the Shadow King himself, only served to increase my repulsion.
“So I was given up for dead,” I say, still trying to make sense of these revelations, trying to fit them within the pockets of memory I still possess. “But . . . but I’mnotdead.”
“No,” Lyria acknowledges. “You were wounded, however. You took a bad blow, and, by the time you were brought here, we feared we would lose you. It took powerful spellwork to keep you alive, which is why your body is so numb. That spellwork is still sustaining you.”
I look down at myself again, briefly glimpsing that shadowy darkness encasing my limbs. There and gone again in a flash, but the crawling sensation against my skin doesn’t fade. I don’tactively feel a wound, though there is a sense of pressure around my abdomen. Part of me wants to press further, to know the extent of my injuries, but I’m not certain that is information I can bear just now. Maybe in a day or two, when I am more recovered.
