Page 43 of Enslaved

I shake my head, though he cannot see me. “Dasyra is a fae name. But your mother was human. I suppose her true name was kept secret for her protection. She would have been vulnerable, a human queen in a fae court.”

Another long silence. Then finally: “The Pledge was not yet signed when Lodírhal took her as his bride. Eledria was even more dangerous for humans then than it is now. So yes; they kept her true name secret, known only to her husband. And me.” He looks into his glass before taking another swig. Only then does he say in a low voice: “Margareth. Margareth Rochefort.”

I draw a slow breath. Somehow it feels right that I should know. It’s not as though she can be hurt by my knowledge anymore. And this way perhaps I might come to grips with the person she was and the life she lived before I came along with my untrained pen and my careless magic.

“And Castien?” I continue after a moment. His body tenses. The sound of his name on my lips is a shock, for I have always taken such care to refer to him only by his title. I hurry on: “It is a mortal name too, is it not?”

“Ah!” He’s still for several breaths. Then he turns and faces me, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re full of questions suddenly. One must wonder why.”

I drop my gaze, studying the bread still in my hands. Though several possible excuses race across my brain, none of them sound convincing. In the end I mutter, “Never mind,” set the bread down, and move to the assortment of garments hanging before the fire. I touch the blouse, hoping to find it dry enough to wear. It’s still quite damp.

The Prince watches me silently. I feel his gaze on the side of my face. When I dare glance up, there’s an odd expression in his eyes. Something like . . .hunger.He blinks, and it’s gone. Gone so completely, replaced by his usual blasé disinterest. He takes another gulp from his cup, finishing off the drink. Then, setting the glass down on the ramshackle mantel, he swipes the blouse from my hands. “Here, let me have that.” He pulls it through his fist, and the fabric begins to glow. It’s not unlike the magic he used on me before our venture to Ulakrana.

“Are you glamouring it?” I ask.

“If I did that, when the glamour faded, you’d find yourself walking about in damp garments once more. No, this is a drying spell.”

I frown. “Does it require human magic?”

“A bit.”

I snatch the blouse back and retreat three paces. “No!” Our eyes meet. Firelight flickers in the depths of his eyes, highlighting his surprise. I shake my head fiercely. “Don’t do that! Don’t use your human blood and . . . and . . . Do you remember what the crone said?”

“I remember.” His voice is a deep rumble.

I keep going, unable to stop myself now. “She said one more surge of human magic wouldkillyou!” I wring the blouse in both hands as though I could wring his neck. “Why would you risk it? For something so . . . so stupid?”

His mouth quirks. “Darling, I assure you a simple drying spell isn’t going to herald my sorry end. Have a little faith in me.”

I turn away. “It’s not worth it.” Hands shaking, I drape the blouse back over the chair. His gaze is still fixed on me. I wish he would look away. I wish he wouldn’t stare so. Like he’s seeing straight into my heart and understanding the tangle of my feelings better than I do. Scowling, I catch his eye. “What?”

He leans one elbow against the mantel, all relaxed grace, a stark contrast to the upright tension of mere moments ago. That half-smile still tips his lips, faintly mocking.

Then abruptly: “She named me after her brother.”

I blink, momentarily not following this shift in the conversation. He continues regardless, leaving me to catch up. “Apparently they were quite close. This was before she met my father, of course. Before their Fatebond sprang into being. My uncle was not pleased when Lodírhal stole her away. Mother claimed he got used to the idea eventually and made her swear she would name her firstborn in his honor. Lodírhal was against it. But it wasn’t often he could gainsay my mother anything she wished.”

I study his profile thoughtfully. Sometimes it’s easy to dismiss these people of whom he speaks as mere figures in a story unrelated to mine. But they are his family. His history. Which means they matter. To me. Possibly more than they should.

“Do you have a fae name as well?” I ask after a little silence.

“I do.” He casts me a sidelong glance. “These days known only to my father. But one day, I’ll offer that name as a gift to she who will be my wife. If she accepts me, she will speak it back. And I will come to her from anywhere in all the worlds.”

Again that traitorous flush of heat envelops me. Gods above, why am I reacting like this? It’s not as though I wasn’t aware of this practice among the fae. Of keeping hidden names known only to parents and spouses. Of course, when the Prince finally takes a bride, she will receive that secret. It’s a well-known tradition.

Suddenly the room around me feels small. Small and close and much too warm. I’m probably just too close to the fire. I should back away. Yet, I cannot seem to move. I can only stand there, looking at him. Watching the way he studies my face. Watching how his gaze travels slowly across my features, finally dropping to rest on my lips. Now my eyes are on his lips as well, and though I don’t remember moving, the distance between us has somehow shrunk. Did he advance toward me? Or did he draw me to him with that irresistible gravity of his? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Just the nearness of him.

The wyvern lets out a honking bray.

Startled, I leap back, shocked to find how few inches remained between us. I grip the back of a chair and turn away, even as a curse hisses between the Prince’s teeth. He pivots, strides across the room to where the wyvern noses at the door. “There, fool beast, is this what you need?” he growls and flings the door wide.

The wyvern slips out, all sinuous grace. Golden light streams through the opening, edging the Prince’s silhouette in a gentle glow. “Ah!” he says, his voice bright and a little too loud. “Now here’s a happy chance. It would seem Roseward has carried us into the Dawn Realm. Aurelis should be a short flight away, and we can use the gates there to return to Vespre. Just as soon as you’re dressed, Darling,” he tosses back over his shoulder, “we’ll be on our way. There’s no knowing how far or fast this island will drift.”

With that, he steps through the door and pulls it shut behind him, leaving me alone in the damp darkness of the lighthouse, beside the crackling fire.

My blouse is still faintly damp as I button the wrists and collar. I don’t care. Nor do I mind the lingering dampness in my skirt or vest. My cloak, at least, is dry enough. I don it last of all, pulling the hood up to cover my wild hair. Then, satchel strap slung across my shoulder, I step out from the lighthouse into the dawnlight.

The Prince stands on the edge of the cliff, his arms crossed, his stance wide. Wind tosses his hair, but somehow never snarls it, blast him. He watches the wyvern as it performs dizzying aerobatics above the ocean waves. It swoops low and snatches a large flapping fish in its great hind talons. This it carries to a lower portion of cliff, where it proceeds to swallow its catch whole.

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