Page 52 of Enslaved

I smile then. Because I know. This plan of mine will work. I don’t know how I know, but . . . it will. It will.

“Do you trust me?” I say.

“Trust you?” The Prince snorts. “To be mad and reckless, absolutely.”

“Then fly on.”

The wyvern makes another wide circle. Rather to my surprise, the Prince takes a handful of feathers and tugs, bringing the beast’s head swinging to face the wasteland. The wyvern utters a burble of protest, but at the Prince’s insistence pulses its wings once, twice, three times. Then we’re over the border, leaving the green world behind as we plunge into the desert’s clutches. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” the Prince mutters.

I don’t bother to answer. Instead I pull my satchel in front of me, reach inside, and grab the slim copy ofZaleria Zintoris.The wind is rough, pulling at the pages, but I press it open and page through until I come to the set of verses I need. I begin to read out loud:

“Tho’ laurels and coronets may fall

To Time’s unyielding hand

And fade to ruin beyond recall,

Will no degradation mar this,

Shining bright o’er sea and land,

The Crown of Volodaris.”

Though the translation into Serythian loses some of the might and power of the old Lunulyrian song, I feel the ancient glory suffusing the words, captured by Mage Larune’s pen and magic. And I have magic of my own—magic which I have practiced before without knowing what I did. Magic which now and then Estrilde would unleash from her clutches so that I might entertain her guests, bringing to life songs and poems as I read out loud. Letting the words enter my heart and soul then emerge from my lips with stunning power.

This is the glory of mortal magic, more profound than any glamour. For as I read, as I draw upon that magic which has been inside me all along—that magic which the Prince freed when he bought my Obligation from Estrilde—the old song of stars and constellations comes alive around us. I feel it happening, though I dare not lift my eyes from the pages before me. I continue reading verse after verse of that ancient song once sung in foreign tongues in honor of stars and constellations, beings of glory and beauty more ancient even than the fae themselves. I feel the awe of those ancient singers, feel the wonder of the mortal mage who first heard them sing and sought to capture some small essence of their song so that others may know it too. Their wonder, her words, my voice, combined.

And when I come to the end of the final verse, I lift my head to see it. Night sky. Surrounding us. Brought to vivid life. By me. By my magic.

“Gods above and deep below!” the Prince breathes. The arm wrapped around me has gone slack. When I twist to get a better look at him, I find his jaw open, his eyes wide in absolute shock.

“It’s not real,” I whisper, half-afraid of breaking the spell. “You can feel the sun still, can’t you?”

The Prince shakes his head. Finally, he lowers his gaze, meets my eyes. His expression is one of rapt wonder. At first I think it’s for the magic. But then . . . then I wonder if it’s just . . .for me.

“You are so much more than I ever suspected.” He breathes the words like a prayer. “You magnificent thing!”

I stare into his eyes. For a moment, I forget the magic I’ve just worked. I forget my mad plan, the many layers of bargains I’ve ensnared myself in. Forget Danny and Oscar and everything. There’s just him. Here with me. Looking at me like that. Like I am the very miracle he’s been searching for all his life. Looking at me like—

The wyvern dips. I gasp, grip a handful of feathers, and face forward once more. My heart races, and I’m once again painfully aware of the Prince’s arm around me, of his chin hovering just over my shoulder, of his lips so near my ear. But now I also see how thin the starry sky surrounding us is, how quickly the magic will fade.

“There!” I cry, pointing a little to our left where the Crown Constellation burns brighter than all other stars in the sky. “The centermost star is Volodar. It was said long ago that the High King was crowned in stars, and the jewel of his crown could guide all weary travelers to his seat. Unless I’m much mistaken, if we follow that star, it will take us to Volodaris.”

“You’re not mistaken,” the Prince admits even as he turns the wyvern toward that guiding point in the sky. “Your mad little scheme has a spark of brilliance to it after all.”

It’s strange to travel under nightfall while still feeling the heat of the sun burning on the back of my neck. Every now and then I read several verses of the song just to keep the spell alive. I haven’t the strength for a full reading. But it’s enough.

So we soar over a featureless landscape of rolling dunes, deeper and deeper into the wasteland, following an illusion. I can’t help thinking of the stories I’ve read of adventurers lost in deserts, pursuing mirages until they finally met their bitter ends. Best not to dwell on such tales; it might hurt the magic.

Eventually—whether hours or years or millennia later—two tall spires appear on the horizon like teeth emerging from the sand to tear at the sky. “There!” I cry, the first I’ve spoken in an age. My throat is parched and dry, and my voice cracks so that I hardly recognize it. “What are they?”

“They,” the Prince answers softly, “are Iardi and Luthana, the twin towers of Volodaris, the highest points of the High King’s city.” A shudder runs through his body, and he adds in a lower voice, “I did not think to see them again.”

Again? I turn slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face by the false starlight. He has been here before? Was he one of the adventurers to seek the Water of Life? Why did he not tell me? I hold my tongue, uncertain I should give voice to the questions suddenly brimming.

To my surprise, however, the Prince volunteers: “It was when my mother died.”

My heart jumps to my throat and sticks there. I wait, both afraid he’ll say more and afraid he won’t.

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