Page 51 of Enslaved

“Yes, of course. I’ve heard tell of the guardian of the Water of Life.” I shrug. “But that’s all right. If it were easy, everyone would go drink their fill every day, and the waters would soon lose their powers. It has to be difficult or it wouldn’t matter. That’s just the way stories are.”

He eyes me narrowly. “All right, I’ll bite. Tell me what this great plan of yours is.”

“That is none of your concern, Prince. I ask only that you escort me to the gate that will lead me nearest to Illithorin’s Waste. From there . . .” I hesitate, swallow. “From there you may do as you like. I won’t Oblige you to go any further with me.”

He gives me a withering look. “Oh, no. No, no, no, Darling, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. You can’t drag me this deep into your madness then expect to cut me lose. No, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me a little longer.” With that he snatches the book from my hands, turns it over, and shakes his head, baffled. With a defeated sigh, he shrugs and hands it back to me. “Shall we be off then? I can’t wait to get lost and perish in a burning desert under a blistering hot sun. Sounds like a grand old time to me.”

Though I try my hardest to stop it, I cannot help the smile that breaks across my face.

Apparently, there are no gates leading to Illithorin’s Waste. The region is utterly condemned. Some say it’s damned by the gods themselves. No one dares dwell within a hundred miles of its cursed borders.

So when Lyklor has spun his dial, and the Prince and I have both stepped through the shimmering air of the Between Gate and felt our essences thinned and stretched across the veils of reality before snapping back into physical shape, we find ourselves deposited in the middle of a verdant forest full of chirping birds and slithering sounds in the underbrush.

I pick myself up and dust off my cloak and gown, both of which are suddenly much too hot and heavy for this atmosphere. The Prince, who arrived moments ahead of me, has already stripped off his coat and slung it over his shoulder. “Best leave that,” he says, indicating my cloak. “We can fetch it on the way back.”

I fumble with the clasp and let the wool fabric drop in a pile at my feet. I hesitate then, tempted to do the same with my outer vest. I glance up at the Prince, who catches my eye just for a moment before turning a disinterested gaze away into the lush greenery around us.

Biting my lip, I grab my satchel strap. Sweat-dampened hair already sticks to my forehead. I push it back with one hand. “How swiftly can your wyvern carry us to the borders?”

The Prince fishes in his coat pocket for the parchment spell still tucked in there. “I’d say about three hours. But we must find a clear space from which it can takeoff first. Best foot forward, Darling!”

With that, he strides off. I have no choice but to hasten after him.

Many eyes watch us as we progress—strange Eledrian beings, denizens of this fae forest. Birds sing in sweet harmony, their voices faintly threatening. Once I glimpse a creature that seems to be made up entirely of moss and bark, like an old, half-rotten log suddenly turned animate. It watches us through the empty hollows which serve as eyes before lumbering on its own way. A delicate horned fox races across our path, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the lonely cry of the wanderloo. Though I know innumerable dangers surround us at any given moment, it is very beautiful, almost peaceful, though my blouse is soon sticking to my back in sweat-damped patches underneath my vest.

At last we find a clearing large enough for the wyvern to stretch its wings. The Prince unfolds the parchment and lays it down on the ground. The next moment, the feathered beast sits upright, shaking its head, ruffling its feathers. It twists its elegant neck back and chews the feathers at the base of its tail, growling irritably, but when the Prince approaches, it gives him an affectionate nuzzle.

“Come on then.” The Prince turns to me and holds out a hand. “We’ve a long flight ahead of us.”

I hesitate. But only for a moment. Then I accept his hand, refusing to acknowledge the sparkling tingle of his touch. Nor will I admit to the flutter in my belly when he grips my waist and lifts me onto the wyvern’s back. Gods spare me, I should be used to these little moments of contact by now! But every time we touch is like the very first time.

And when he mounts the wyvern and settles behind me on its back—when he puts his arm around me and holds me close, murmuring, “Hold on, Darling,” in my ear—it’s enough to undo me entirely.

I don’t have time to catch my breath before the wyvern spreads its wings. The muscles of its powerful haunches coil, and it springs into the air. I close my eyes, glad for the Prince’s support as we pull up and above the canopy of trees into the sky above. There the beast catches an updraft and soars in a wide circle. At some gentle guidance from the Prince, it turns its head south. Soon it falls into a steady rhythm of pulse and soar, pulse and soar. Wind whistles through our hair and garments, cooling and drying the accumulated sweat.

After a while I dare to open my eyes and look down on the treetops, the hills, the valleys far below. It’s such a beautiful world. I’ve read accounts of Solira’s beauty before, of course, this Realm of Sunlight. I’ve heard tales of its mighty queen and her incomparable daughters—one of whom I’ve met. Ilusine. Winged and golden-skinned and gorgeous beyond all reason.

“Everyone knows you two were made for one another.”

Estrilde’s voice purrs in my memory. It’s the truth, of course. No one who saw Ilusine and the Prince together could doubt their rightness for each other. But it’s not the whole story. The Prince turned her away. He doesn’t love her. He can’t, because . . . because he loves . . .

“There.” The Prince’s voice breaks through my reverie. He points, and I raise my gaze to peer over the wyvern’s feathered crest. There on the far horizon. Blankness. All the green and lush landscape around us simply vanishes into heat-seared haze.

“Illithorin’s Waste,” I whisper. The wind steals my voice, carrying it away.

“They say the High King’s Palace was so mighty, so majestic, it could be seen from every realm of Eledria without the aid of magic.” There’s unexpected sorrow in the Prince’s voice. “They say when it went up in flames, it burned for a century. A warning to every living fae. To those who dared overindulge in the gift of the gods, who sought to make themselves like the gods in immortality.”

He falls silent once more as the wyvern carries us over the lonely miles. The distance to the waste slowly shrinks. Sometimes I close my eyes, unable to bear the unfathomable vastness of it. Sometimes I look down, watch the trees and rivers go by below. Sometimes however, I dare look up and see that tragic scar upon the world. In my mind’s eye, images of dragons and fire and destruction perform their inevitable dance of annihilation. A war ordained by the gods themselves.

The nearer we come, the more I find myself reluctant to enter that realm. Even the prospect of diving into Seraphine’s kingdom did not fill me with such dread. I could turn back. But I’ve gone beyond doubting now. Determination burns in my veins. I set my face to that horizon, blinking into the wind, and no longer let myself look away.

Finally we come to the edge of the waste, a stark line where the greenery suddenly gives away to nothing but rolling, endless sand. The wyvern goes into a gentle holding pattern, growling softly, unwilling to enter. I see at once how dangerous it must be. Once we go beyond sight of the green land, we risk becoming lost in that vastness. How many others have ventured in, lured by the promise of healing and life the fountain offers, only to perish in that heat, their bones long since buried and forgotten?

“All right,” the Prince says, his mouth close to my ear. “This is your moment, Darling. Reveal this daring plan of yours, will you?”

I swallow painfully, my throat dry. Then I say, “Fly on.”

“Fly on? Into that? With no map, no stars, no charts. No supplies. Perhaps youwantus to die.”

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