Page 71 of Enslaved

He touches his forehead deferentially. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ring the bell,” he says before slipping away down the passage.

I watch him go. Then I step into the room and move around it slowly, inspecting each item by turn. On the gold vanity is a set of gold combs, all with my name engraved in them. The wardrobe is packed with gowns as well—beautiful gowns, all my size.

An uneasy feeling coils in my gut. Which is silly, of course. This is not unlike my arrival in Vespre, after all. I’d been surprised then to discover the far too-nice chamber the Prince had arranged for me in advance. But somehow it had not struck me in the same way. For one thing, my name hadn’t been carved into every conceivable detail. Gods spare me! It’s even etched into the fancy headboard and embroidered into the bed curtains. How could Ivor have prepared all of this? Had he done it back when he first came to Vespre, seeking to purchase my Obligation? But . . . why?

I take a seat at the vanity, uneasily meeting my own gaze in the mirror. My eyes are hollow and red-rimmed, my cheeks far too pale. I need to pull myself together, face this new reality head on. It’s not so bad, after all. No more Noswraiths trying to eat me at every turn. No more zealot trolls eager to bash my head in, or agonizing long hours poring over scratchy writing, my hand cramping, my back aching, my eyes blurring with fatigue. Life will be easier now.

As for Ivor? Well, according to the laws of Obligation, I cannot be obliged to . . . to . . . to engage in certain personal services at the behest of my Obliege Lord. Fae law can be dangerous and rarely benefits the humans involved. But this at least is sure.

So no. I needn’t worry on that score. If indeed there were anything to worry about. Ivor is passionate, but I’m not foolish enough to think he would throw away everything he has with Estrilde for the sake of a passing fancy. Certainly not for a mere human.

But if he did . . . if he were . . . and if Estrilde found out . . . Would she risk the wrath of her betrothed and future king by outright murdering his servant?

A shudder rolls down my spine. I must be careful. Remain on my guard.

Rising, I move to the wardrobe and begin to sort through the vast array of garments there. I need to change out of this ballgown. To my dismay, however, there isn’t a single practical ensemble to be had. Everything is fantastic or elaborate, all in brilliant hues and revealing cuts. These are the clothes of a fine court lady, and yet all are perfectly tailored to my size. Hands shaking, I dig deeper until I find what looks to be a nightgown. The fabric is soft, clinging, and practically translucent, but it’s the best option I have for the moment.

I change into the garment, carefully putting aside Dasyra’s lavender gown. The butterflies, all a little drab and limp following recent events, happily flutter away from my head and tuck themselves into the folds of fabric out of sight. Tomorrow I’ll find someone to take it back to the queen’s apartment. Then I need never think of it again. Nor of how it felt to be held in the Prince’s arms as the music swelled around us, carrying us away in its magic—

“Where is she? Can I see her?”

A jolt shoots through my body. I whip my head around, staring at the door. That voice, muffled, but sounding from just outside. It sounded like . . . but it couldn’t possibly be . . .

“Not now.” A deep, growling answer. “It’s not time, I tell you. Come away at once.”

Ivor. I would know his rumbling tones anywhere. But the other . . .

With a sharp intake of breath, I spring forward, grab the door, and wrench it open. Peer out into the passage. It’s empty. At the far end, the door leading to Ivor’s personal quarters, is just swinging shut. Whoever was here a moment before has gone.

Blood pounds in my head. I can scarcely draw breath. Because that voice . . . that voice . . . I swear I know it.

I swear, it sounded just like Oscar.

The dragon shifts like a series of rolling hills, starting with the top of her head and rippling down her massive body to the end of her spiked tail. The waters of the sacred fountain slosh around her, little waves of foam and froth, shining with holy light. She lifts her heavy snout and jaw and swings them dripping to face across the hall. One bright eye gleams red as a demon’s lost soul.

“Who dares approach the Water of Life?” Her voice is a warning dark as hell. “Be you pure of heart or black of intent, you cannot . . . oh, damn.” With a heavy sigh, she sags back down and rests her head on the edge of the pool. “Do you know, I don’t really care anymore. I’ve had just about all I can take of you heroes and all your comings and goings.”

Then her eye narrows. She sniffs, inhaling streams of her own smoke. “Step a little closer, why don’t you? There’s something about your stink that smells familiar.”

I stand in the doorway, gazing down upon the monster in her pool. At her command, I come forward, head high, hands outspread to show I bear no weapons. “Great Oasuroa,” I say and bow. “We meet again.”

“Again? Ah, yes!” With a surge of rippling muscle and scale, the dragon sits upright in her pool. Her wings rattle, her crest flares. She opens her jaw, and flames dance between her teeth. “I seem to remember banishing you from these premises. Did you think I was joking, little elfkin? Or are you of a mind to be roasted?”

I meet her gaze without flinching. “I’m not here of my own volition but out of Obligation to one I care about.

The dragon tilts her head. “If you care so much, why is it an obligation?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is with you snacklings, isn’t it?” Oasuroa sighs and slumps deeper into her pool, sending a wave sloshing over the edge. It rolls across the floor to dampen the soles of my boots. Heat from her body causes the sacred waters to steam. Condensation beads my brow, and my shirt clings to my body in damp patches. “Very well,” the dragon growls, “you might as well tell me as not. Who sent you?”

“The librarian. Clara Darlington.”

Her crest flares again, fluttering with interest. “Indeed?”

“According to your bargain,” I continue, “she has convinced Illithorin’s heir to relinquish the curse under which you suffer. Thus she would claim her promised reward: a single mouthful from the Water of Life.”

Oasuroa’s body begins to tremble. “You’re lying.”

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