Page 19 of Enslaved

“I didn’t have to be. I know Noswraiths better than any man living. They are the worst parts of their creators’ souls, trapped in living form. They are without hearts, without mercy, without a shred of human feeling.”

“Maybe, but . . . but . . .” I drop my gaze again, staring at the books he holds. “But their creators weren’t heartless.”

The Prince does not speak. A long, terrible silence stretches between us.

I swallow and continue, my words low and hard: “You said it yourself. You said my father could never have created a Noswraith, because a Noswraith can only be born from love. Bent, broken, battered, twisted into something dark and terrible. But love, nonetheless.” I lift my lashes. “Weare not heartless. We spell-makers. Perhaps we are not even beyond redemption. So is it not possible for our creations to be redeemed as well?”

For the first time that I’ve known him, the Prince is dumbstruck. He searches my face, looking for I know not what. At long last, he swallows hard and blinks, eyes softening somewhat. “I believe,” he says slowly, “that you can rise above your creation. I believe you can be more,aremore. But only if you combat it.” He takes a step closer, bending his head so that I cannot help but meet his gaze. “I see the shadow in you. Everywhere you go, it is there with you, shrouding your soul. Tell me, Darling, and tell me truly—are you being haunted?”

I open my mouth. Close it again. Then I shake my head.

Doubt flickers in his eye. “Beware. Noswraiths are seductive. I’ve seen it happen time and again. I’ve watched creators forget the truth of the monstrosities they’ve created. They begin to let it in, draw it close, and then . . .” He pauses, his lips thinning momentarily. “Vervain is neither the first nor the last librarian to fall prey to her own shadow-self.”

An image flashes through my mind—an image of Vervain, a former librarian of Vespre, now ensconced in a tower cell on the other side of the palace. Alone. Broken and living out a half-life existence. All the Prince’s efforts to bring her mind back to sanity have failed. And the last time I visited her . . .

I draw back a step, bumping into the edge of my desk and gripping it tight with both hands. “I am not Vervain. I know what I’m doing. You don’t need to worry about me.”

His brow creases, some of his anger giving way to another emotion. Concern, perhaps. Or possibly sorrow. “So long as you serve in Vespre Library,” he says, “you must abide by library rules. Which means no more little pleasure jaunts into the Nightmare Realm. Do I make myself clear?”

I want to protest. I want to point out that nothing Dulmier Fen has to offer compares to the nightmares I faced and vanquished these last several months. I want to argue that I’m strong enough, smart enough, clever enough, powerful enough . . . but even in my head, the words sound like pure hubris.

Instead I bite my tongue and nod.

“We can’t lose you, Darling,” the Prince continues. He reaches out to me, his fingers hovering in the air just above my hand as I grip the desk’s edge. “I . . . I can’t . . .” He stops, drops his chin, then tries again. “The library needs you well and whole. We’re understaffed as it is. Thegubdagogsmay help, but they are neither an immediate nor a final solution. So no more of this recklessness. Do I make myself clear?”

I swallow back the painful lump in my throat. “I will serve faithfully. I will fulfill my Obligation.”

He nods. Turns to go, the two spellbooks still tucked under his arm. I watch him retreat, study the back of his head, the set of his shoulders.

Then a whisper hisses through my lips: “Until tomorrow.”

I shiver, a chill running down my spine. That voice . . . it didn’t sound like mine.

Something tickles against my cheek. Like delicate threads, dangling from my eyelids. I reach up to brush them away, but there’s nothing there.

With a bitter curse I turn back to my desk and the pile of work awaiting me.

“Andumogsay I give her pain in theruk!She say no one give her such pain in therukas me!”

Sis makes this declaration with all the bold triumph of a conqueror, brandishing her stone table knife and the cut of stewed meat skewered on its end. Seated across from her at our little family table, I shoot a glance to Lir. “Head,Mistress,” she murmurs as she serves stew from a pot into my bowl. “Umog Grush claims the child’s endless prattle gives her a headache.”

“Ah!” I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully as Sis continues her account of her day in the low temple. Apparently, it was quite successful. Gone is the child’s timidity of this morning. She’s back to her usual, vivacious, exhausting little self, eager to tell me all she’s learned. I don’t understand half of what she says, but this doesn’t stop her.

Amid Sis’s ceaseless stream of talk, Har, Dig, and Calx are equally determined to fill me in on the events of their day. Meanwhile, I struggle to catch Lir’s eye. My pretty maid is hard to read, her lovely features fixed as stone. I dare not guess how her meeting with the priestess went. Finally, as she wafts past on her way to firmly wipe Calx’s gravy-stained mouth, I catch her by the wrist, draw her to me, and whisper, “What happened between you and theumog?Did you . . . Did she . . . ?”

Lir’s gaze flits away from mine. When she looks at me again, however, there’s a tentative smile pulling at her lips. “She did not send me away.”

Well, that’s something, I suppose. If Umog Grush had failed to see any hope for Lir, she would not have hesitated to say so. “And will you be training along with Sis?” I persist.

Lir shrugs. “I sat by and observed. When I took some thread, she did not stop me from copying the knots she demonstrated.”

Warmth glows in my chest. It’s a victory. I’m sure of it. Perhaps not a final victory—the priestess might very well change her mind and send Lir packing tomorrow or the next day. But in the moment at least I can’t help hoping.

I’m too excited to eat more than a few mouthfuls. Instead I listen to my children as they try to outdo each other competing for my attention. When dinner is through, and they’re all bathed and tucked into bed, I kiss one smooth forehead and three craggy ones, taking a moment to tell them each how proud I am of them. Sis clings to my neck a little longer than her brothers. But she has a satisfied look on her face when she snuggles down into her pillows.

On my way out, I pause in the doorway and look back into their snug little room. A strange feeling quivers in my chest—hope and worry and happiness all in one. And foreboding. A sense that I should hold onto this moment, hold onto this sight of the four of them.

Sis pulls back a corner of her blanket, one eye blinking up at me. “Shut door,Mar!” she says in her imperious little voice. “Too muchhirala!”

---