Page 44 of Enslaved

Shivering, I tuck my arms inside my cloak and draw as near to the cliff’s edge as I dare, standing on the Prince’s right. “Ah, Darling,” he says, his voice brisk as the sea breeze. “I see you’re clothed at last. Excellent.” He juts his chin to indicate the wyvern. “We shall be off as soon as the beast has finished its breakfast. There’s no rushing a wyvern at its meal.”

I nod and turn my gaze out across the sweeping view. The horizon of the Dawn Realm outlines the lower sky. Through a haze of pink clouds, the magnificent towers of Aurelis City are just coming into view. For some reason I cannot explain, the sight fills me with foreboding.

I pull my cloak a little tighter and shoot a sidelong glance at the Prince. His brow is unexpectedly stern. “What’s wrong?” I ask quietly, half-afraid of being heard.

Immediately his face melts into a brilliant, devil-may-care smile which he trains upon me at full intensity. “Whatever gave you the impression anything was wrong?”

I won’t let him put me off so easily. “Your face. You looked a million miles away just now.”

“Oh, not so far, I’m sure.” Then for a moment he drops the wryness, the sarcasm. Instead he heaves a heavy sigh. “I had not thought to return to Aurelis until . . . well, until the funeral. In fact, I wasn’t entirely certain I’d return even then. The funerals of kings are so often accompanied by coronations, you see.”

I shouldn’t pry. I should bite my tongue, leave him to his thoughts, put some distance between us.

Instead, I find myself asking, “Was your relationship with your father always so difficult?”

The Prince catches my eye, one eyebrow lifted. “I suppose you’d know a thing or two about difficult fathers.”

I shrug and offer a half-smile.

“My earliest memories of my father are . . . different.” The Prince’s jaw tenses as he lifts his eyes to the horizon once more. “I remember him as loving. Devoted, even. In fact, unless recollection deceives me, I had quite a happy childhood. But then, you know, there was the kidnapping. That certainly put a damper on things. An old enemy of my father’s, a Noxaurian lord by the name of Kyriakos, stole me away and imprisoned me for a handful of centuries. Not that I was aware of it. I was imprisoned in my child’s body, suspended in time.”

He speaks with such careless ease. But the horror is there underscoring each word. I’d not known he’d endured such hardship, such cruelty in his early life. But then, there’s so much about him I do not know, so much that goes against the assumptions I made early on in our acquaintance.

“It was Nelle and her husband who saved me,” the Prince continues. “Inadvertently, perhaps, but I was no less grateful. I returned to my parents soon after. Lodírhal, realizing what had happened, set out at once to kill Kyriakos only to discover him already slain and his stronghold torn apart.” He tips his head my way. “That was thanks to Soran Silveri’s Noswraith, I understand. Not a pretty end, even for a monster like Kyriakos.

“My father was never the same afterwards. And once the spell was broken, I grew swiftly to adulthood. We rarely saw eye-to-eye on . . . anything, if I’m honest. Mother acted as a go-between, but Lodírhal and I were both relieved when I left for Vespre. The appointment made sense, occupied both my time and talents, and gave us some much-needed space. Initially, it wasn’t meant to be a permanent assignment.

“Then the queen died. And my father blamed me for her death.”

“What?” The word bursts from my lips in a short cry. “He blamedyou?But you didn’t . . . you weren’t . . .”

The Prince looks at me sadly. “Such an impassioned defense, Darling! Don’t forget, it wasmyjob to contain and control the Noswraiths. I didn’t reach Aurelis fast enough. The only mortal mage on hand with power enough to stand against a wraith of that magnitude was the queen. Even she couldn’t beat it in the end. By the time I arrived, it was already too late.”

Sickness knots my gut. I can’t speak. I can scarcely breathe. We are silent for a time, lost in our own dark thoughts. Shame, blame, anger, sorrow. A whole storm of emotion swirling around us, interchangeable and intermingling.

“Not long after that,” the Prince continues at length, “the curse latched hold of my blood. Someone . . .” He pauses, then repeats with rancor, “Someonesaw opportunity. A chance to drive the wedge more deeply between the king and his son.” He shakes his head. “Lodírhal never had to say anything. I knew the minute the curse took hold that I could never be his heir. Not I. Not the cursed, half-blood son . . . the very man he blamed for the death of his Fatebound wife and his own ultimate demise.”

Two tears slip through my lashes and streak down my cheeks. I wish . . . I wish many things. I wish I could find that one, simple word that might dispel this storm and bring us both to safe harbor. Does such a word exist? Maybe not. Maybe there’s nothing I can say.

Instead I reach out and take his hand.

A shock of lightning shoots up his arm. He turns, stares down at me. It takes all my courage to lift my gaze to his. But once I do, I’m trapped there. Transfixed by his eyes, so wide, so full of pain, so full of . . . something else. Something deeper than pain. Something wild and dangerous and sweet.

“Clara,” he breathes.

My lips, chapped by the cold breeze, part. I let out a short breath. Then with more daring than I knew I possessed I whisper: “Castien.”

A brash burst of trumpet song erupts in the sky above us. I start, whirl, and gape up at the sudden oncoming rush of great winged creatures, swooping down upon Roseward Isle. The glare from the dawning sunlight glints off golden armor, and I’m obliged to shade my eyes before I can finally discern who and what they are. Soldiers from Aurelis, mounted on winged horses. And Lord Ivor Illithor riding at the front.

“Gods damn and blast it!” the Prince snarls. “What is he doing here?”

He is magnificent. Like a manifestation of legend. His golden hair is braided back from his forehead, and he wears a circlet across his brow, marking him as the king’s heir. His armor is brightly polished, and his steed is stormy gray dappled with blue, a living storm cloud of a beast.

My stomach plunges. I pull my hand from the Prince’s just as Ivor’s mount descends, landing between the lighthouse and the cliff’s edge. Four more riders join him, pulling their horses up short behind his.

“Welcome, Ivor, old chap!” The Prince raises a hand in greeting. “Fancy meeting you here. Come to save the day, have you?”

Ivor’s cold gaze passes right over the Prince to settle on me. His eyes sharpen, the expression powerful enough to send a dizzying rush through my body. I take a step back, heartrate quickening. But I don’t want him to see me shrink. I don’t want him knowing what effect he still has on me, no matter the time or distance between us.

---