Page 17 of Enslaved

And I groan, sink back into my seat, and look down at my shaking hands once more. Gods on high! Who would have thought so small an amount of magic would leave me trembling and weak? I must fight it. But how? How does one fight a curse on one’s very blood?

I run my trembling fingers through my hair. Then, pushing my chair back, I rise and go to the window. Gaze out on that sweeping view. This city. This Vespre. Mine for centuries, longer than I like to remember. My home and my prison. My greatest honor and greatest bane.

Will I indeed turn it over to Anj and the priestesses? Is it possible I won’t spend the rest of my existence fighting a losing battle, warding off ultimate and inevitable doom?

Perhaps there is hope.

Perhaps I’m deluding myself.

But then, I never expected a storm likeherto blow into my life, stirring up all which I had so neatly ordered. Seeing things I’d overlooked. Challenging me, testing me. Driving me stark raving mad. Ultimately forcing me to be better. Wiser. Truer.

Gods, how I’d hated her! Hated her for what she’d done with that unconscious, unchecked power of hers. Yet even in the very depths of loathing, I could never fully hide from the truth. The truth that, from the first moment I set eyes on her pale, terrified face, my soul was set ablaze. Not with hatred. No, this is a greater, far more terrible and destructive flame.

A flame that would burn down worlds for her sake.

Gritting my teeth, I turn from the window, face back into my shadowed chamber. I must be careful. I must ever be on my guard. Because it doesn’t matter what I feel for her. There’s no room in her heart for me. Not crammed as it is with those children, or that wretched brother, or her thrice-damnable Doctor Gale. What am I compared to any of these? Less than nothing in her estimation. While she?

She iseverything.

As it turns out, the Prince fulfilled my promise and joined the children for dinner last night.

I’m told all about it the following morning when the four of them burst into my room as I’m preparing for the day. Three stone-hided bodies bounce on my bed, climb up my wardrobe, swing from my curtains, and cause all manner of mayhem amid a near-constant stream of chatter. Apparently, what had begun as dinner soon devolved into a competitive sport of who can spit the pits of the stewed peaches farthest over the balcony rail into the city below. Calx declares the Prince a champion pit-spitter, and Har and Dig both call him a “regularjor-dor.”I take it that’s a compliment of the highest order.

Only Sis is uncharacteristically quiet while her brothers regale me with tales of the Prince’s expectorating talents. When I turn to her at last, she’s sitting at my vanity, staring at her own face in the glass, her brow puckered and earnest. “What’s wrong, little Sis?” I ask, coming up behind her and stroking her soft hair.

She turns pale eyes up to me. “I is go seeumogtoday,” she says, then purses her lips into a hard line. Finally, she adds, “I need hair up. LikeMar. So I focus.”

She’s so earnest, I have no choice but to pull out my brush and hairpins and set to work pinning her hair up into a tight bun such as I typically wear. I can’t help wondering at her insistence. It’s not a troll style. Is she afraid she’ll be taken away from me if she becomes too trollish? Her face is difficult to read, her brow hard as stone.

Once I finish styling her hair, I drop a kiss on the top of her head and catch her eye in the glass. “You know I’m proud of you. Don’t you?”

She blinks solemnly. Then she says, “Mar?”

“Yes?”

“I is . . . ‘fraid.”

I nod slowly. It’s strange to see my wild imp child uneasy. Yesterday, she’d been so comfortable with the low priestess, you’d think they were old friends. Perhaps the altercation with Anj and his people left more of an impression on her young mind than I realized.

I clear my throat. Then, though I know my accent is atrocious, I say:“Kaurga-hor, gruaka-hor.”Those very words were spoken to me not long after I first arrived in Vespre. If I remember correctly, they mean,“more fear, more brave.”

Sis’s eyes brighten. She understands. Suddenly, she smiles, turns on the stool and wraps her little arms around me. She’s much stronger than her size would suppose, and quite squeezes the breath out of me. But I squeeze her back for as long as she wishes. When she is done, she springs from the stool and tackles her nearest brother with tremendous enthusiasm. That hairstyle won’t last the morning, I’m sure.

The next half-hour is the usual madness of making certain all four children have eaten, washed, and readied for their coming day. The boys are undergoing training with the house guard, and bristle in pint-sized spiked breastplates and helmets, gripping dull lances in their square fists. Once they’re kissed and sent on their way, I take Sis’s hand and walk her to the front doors of the palace. Lir is there, waiting for us. She is dressed in her finest, most traditional troll garb, including a belt of crystal flowers and small animal skulls. Her eyes are wide, and her hands twist nervously in the silky fabric of her skirts.

“Mistress,” she says, when Sis and I emerge onto the front porch. “are you sure Umog Grush meant formeto escort Sis to the temple?”

I take her hand and squeeze it encouragingly. “I’m positive, Lir. Now go. Make me proud.”

Her lips curve in a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach her nervous eyes. Whatever outcome her meeting with the priestess brings will alter the course of her life forever. Perhaps she will even be admitted back into the holy cycle ofVagungad, an outcast no more. I wish I could go with her, offer her my support. Instead I stand on the porch and watch until both she and Sis are out of sight.

They pause under the arch of the palace gate, turning back to wave. Then they’re gone. I let out a long sigh. It’s out of my hands now.

The bells are already tolling seven by the time I slip into the library to begin my work shift, a full hour late. My gaze flicks immediately to the main drafting table. The Prince is there, standing with his back to me. I’m certain he’s aware of my entrance, but he does not turn to acknowledge me, not even to make some quip about my tardiness. I stand a moment in the open doorway, heart lodged in my throat. I can still feel the warmth and strength of his fingers gripping my elbow, twined in my hair. I can still feel the burning intensity of his gaze as he stared down into my eyes, our mouths mere inches apart . . .

I drag in a ragged breath. Then, tucking my chin, I pull the door shut behind me and hasten to my desk cubicle, glad to duck into its shelter. My corset feels tight, and my chest heaves uncomfortably, as though I’ve just run a sprint. Shaking my head, I press the knuckles of one fist against my forehead. This is getting out of hand. It was easier when the Prince avoided me entirely these last several weeks. Everything was easier.

Now, following the events of yesterday, my mind and heart are in such a tangle, and my body is hot and cold and trembling all at once. It takes everything I have not to leap from this chair, storm out of this cubicle, march up to the Prince and . . . and . . . What? What would I say? What is there left to say between us that hasn’t been hinted at and danced around and suppressed until it’s ready to burst from the pressure?

---