Page 1 of Enslaved

I clutch my satchel strap tight as I step from the spiral stair onto the top floor of Vespre Library. All is quiet beneath the glittering crystal dome. Overhead the gentle twinkle of twilit stars gleams through a haze of lavender-hued clouds. A peaceful aura suffuses the air.

I don’t trust it for a moment.

Most of the drafting tables and desks lining the curved wall are empty. Once upon a time, this library bustled with activity as numerous intrepid librarians went about the ongoing mission of managing the vast collection of grimoires contained within this citadel. Now there is no one in sight save Mixael Silveri, the senior librarian, who sits hunchbacked over a pile of work at his desk, absorbed in what he is doing, oblivious to my presence. Andreas is down in the vaults, re-securing a spell-binding. He will be busy for some hours at least. And as for the Prince . . .

An uneasy shiver steals down my spine. I scan the open floor, which is built around the central well-like opening of the citadel tower. I could almost swear the Prince is close by, hidden in the shadows of one of those desk cubicles. Watching me. I don’t have good reason for this suspicion. It’s nothing more than a feeling. An instinct if you will.

I shrug, rolling first one shoulder then the other. It’s been weeks now since the Prince and I have spoken more than two words to one another. I don’t remember the last time we bothered to exchange a polite “good morning” or “good night.” Such familiarities are no longer appropriate between antagonists such as we.

Still, I’m never quite able to shake the impression of his watchful gaze. Even at times when I know he is absent from the library, that awareness ofhisawareness is always with me. When I’m walking the stacks in search of broken-down volumes. When I’m bowed over my own desk, writing bindings for smaller grimoires. When I’m oiling old leather covers or stitching fresh spines or practicing the endless list of Noswraith names, muttering them under my breath . . . that odd, tingling sensation will creep over me. I’ll turn sharply, convinced this time I’ll catch a glimpse of him peering out from behind some shelf or leaning over the rail of the curved staircase.

I’ve not caught him yet. Not even once.

But the feeling persists nonetheless.

Thus I scan the upper floor with care, forcing my gaze to search the shadows of each and every cubicle by turn. I even crouch to look beneath the main drafting table, though I couldn’t say why. It’s not as though I expect to spot the Prince seated cross-legged under there, grinning up at me like some child in a game of hide-and-seek.

Straightening, I draw a long breath. I can’t stand here dithering all day. The longer I do, the more suspicious I’ll appear. So I adjust the strap of my satchel and stride swiftly across the floor, my pace quick and purposeful. The weight of a book bumps against my hipbone.

Something inside it . . .stirs.

Hastily, I press a hand against it. The Prince was very clear on my first day in Vespre: no taking books from the library premises. My stomach gives a ticklish twist. This infraction is a terrible breach of protocol, especially considering the nature of the volume I’ve tucked away inside my satchel. The rules of Vespre Library are in place to keep the Vespre librarians alive and in one piece. One Noswraith broken free of its written chains has the potential to cause untold damage across the realms of Eledria.

But I’m only taking one very small grimoire, containing within its pages one very small Noswraith. And I need it. I have a plan. A good plan, I think. A plan that could change the fate and future of this library, this city. This world.

Thus, though every rule-abiding instinct in me cringes, I slip out the library door, carrying my pilfered book with me. No one calls out, not Mixael, not Andreas. Not the Prince. It’s too easy. Which is upsetting in and of itself. The library’s defenses are badly reduced. If word were to get out, thieves from across Eledria would descend upon Vespre. All the foolish fae lords and ladies, so eager to take and tame Noswraiths for their own devious purposes. Which of course would spell certain disaster for anyone who attempted it. No one can control a Noswraith, not even those who create them. They can only be bound and rebound and then rebound again, without an end in sight.

Which is exactly why I must do what I’m doing. Because maybe there is something more that may be done. Maybe there’s a way to bind the wraiths more effectively. Maybe . . . maybe . . .

But I must test my theory before I bring it either to Mixael or Andreas. Certainly before the Prince finds out.

I shut the heavy door quietly behind me, breathe a little prayer, and count to twenty. When no one comes after me, I turn on heel and hasten down the stair, my footsteps hollow and echoing, my breath too loud in my own ears. The cavernous passages all seem to echo, hollow and crypt-like. This palace used to be more densely peopled, long ago when the trolls ruled their own city. Since the coming of the fae to Vespre, most trolls keep to the lower city and leave the palace to the librarians. Only the household guard and a handful of servants stay on, but they are outcasts from troll society.

I don’t meet a soul as I make my way through the passages and come at last to a certain door. There I pause and look first to the right, then the left. There’s no one around. Drawing a deep breath, I open the door and step inside.

“Watch out!”

I freeze in place, heart jumping. My half-upraised arm is wrapped in a tangle of fraying thread. More thread winds around my head and presses against my legs, a spiderweb’s snarl. I peer through the dense strands, trying to make sense of the room before me. There are some old, abandoned pieces of furniture, a few troll-style decorations, outcroppings of crystal and interesting rock formations. It may have once been a luxurious salon for some troll princess. Now it’s just another cavernous, unused space.

Well, not so unused anymore. In fact, it’s the perfect place for little Sis to practice stringing up hergubdagogs.

On the far side of the room, the troll girl perches on the shoulders of her brother, Calx, who in turn sits on the shoulders of their middle brother, Har. Supporting the three of them is stout Dig, the eldest. He struggles to find his footing under their combined weight, and the two smaller boys sway and tip so wildly, I’m sure the whole tower of ungainly troll youngsters will come toppling down. But Sis stands on her tiptoes at the peak, light as thistledown, and her nimble fingers secure a thread to a crag in the upper wall.

Across the room, Lir holds some sort of counterweight in place. It was she who called out the warning. “Best step back and come along the wall, Mistress,” she tells me now. Sis barks a command, and Lir lifts her counterweight a bit higher before shooting me an aggrieved expression. “It’s all likely to come undone if you breathe on it wrong!”

I take in Sis’s work. To my untrained eye, the whole thing looks like a chaotic cobweb. But when I cross my eyes and unfocus my gaze, I half-fancy I’m starting to comprehend the chaos that is agubdagog.Not enough to understandhowit works; just enough to grasp a sense of this troll form of story-capturing, so different from our human method of letters and written words. I can’t help but admire it.

Taking Lir’s advice, I sidle around the edge of the room, keeping close to the wall, ducking to avoid threads and suspended pieces of detritus. Sis babbles in trollish, and all three of her brothers gesture emphatically. Though I don’t understand the words, the children and I have learned to communicate well enough over the last few months, and I get the gist.

Setting aside my satchel, I reach out to help Lir with the rope she’s holding to keep the counterweight in place. It’s much heavier than I expected, and I doubt my paltry efforts are much help to Lir, whose strength far surpasses mine. “How’s it coming along?” I ask through gritted teeth.

Lir rolls her pale eyes. “If you ask me, it’s a mess! Will you look at this nonsense?” She waves a hand, and the counterweight bobbles, ready to yank me off my feet. Sis barks a protest, and Lir quickly pulls it back into place. “I’ve never seen a child more determined,” she continues with a sigh. “Though whether or not it will actually work . . .”

I look around at the snarl, idly wondering what story Sis is trying to tell. Perhaps I wouldn’t understand if it was explained to me. Perhaps one must be a troll to comprehend. But there’s power here. I’m sure of it.

Sis secures her thread and signals for Lir to let go. Lir releases her grip. The counterweight shifts up, and something in the center of the tangle falls. I catch my breath, momentarily believing the whole thing will come crashing down on our heads. Instead, there’s a sense of settling, as though some sort of balance has at last been achieved.

I angle my head for a better look at the object hanging in the middle of thegubdagog. It looks like an old picture frame, approximately ten-by-ten inches square. Stolen from the old portrait gallery in the south wing of the palace, I imagine. The original canvas has been cut out, leaving little scraps still attached to the frame. Whose portrait did the child desecrate in the name of her art?

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