Page 16 of Enslaved

Suddenly, Bheluphnu lunges—a horror of gaping jaw and fiery cat eyes and ripping claws. Strands of magicked reality yank it back again, but only just.

With a sigh, I prop the frame, quiet once more, against a stack of papers. Rooting around in the desk, I find a blank book and open it before me. Study the empty page. That expanse upon which I once would have worked my magic with ease. And now?

A black box with an inlaid pattern of blue respenia blossoms sits within reach at the right corner of my desk. I pull it to me, open the lid. Gaze a moment at the quill resting on a bed of silk inside. Dasyra’s quill, bonded to her. Still infused with her unique magic years after her death. Plucking it up, I trim the nib more out of habit than necessity and dip it in a pot of red ink.

Then, I sit, pen poised above the blank page.

My breath tightens. It’s been some time since I last tried my hand at written magic. Not since that wretched Doctor Gale nearly bled me to death, purging the curse from my body. Slowly, slowly, my human blood has regenerated over the last few months, along with it my ability to use human magic. But the curse regenerated as well.

I feel it in me now, dark and insidious. Waiting for opportunity to strike. I’ve danced on the edge of this precipice so many times, dipping into my power even as I knew the backlash that must follow. One of these days I will push myself too far. And that will be it—the curse will burn me up from the inside out, leaving my body a hollow and steaming husk.

But surely a small binding like this can’t be too much to ask?

Steeling my courage, I lower my hand, begin to scratch out a few simple words. Immediately the curse flares to life. First a burn in the back of my hand, then a streak up my arm to my shoulder. Sweat beads my brow. More pain, a flame licking across my shoulders, up my neck, the base of my skull. Like being stabbed with red-hot pokers.

“Damn it,” I growl and drop the pen. Three haphazard lines and a scrawl of ink are all I have to show for my efforts. And the Noswraith remains unbound.

Biting back curses, I slam the book shut, and drop the quill back in its box. Then, grabbing the speaking tube under my desk, I yank it up to my mouth. “Silveri!”

A muffled answer from the other end:“Sir?”

“I require your assistance in my office. At once.”

Mixael Silveri, my senior librarian, appears at my door a few minutes later. The man is harried and pale. The burden of his new role weighs heavily on his shoulders since the untimely death of his mother. “You called, Prince?” he asks.

“Here,” I say without preamble and hold the frame up for his inspection. “Bind this properly for me, will you?”

His eyes widen. “What is it?” I watch in silence as he takes it in his hands, turns it around . . . and jumps six inches in the air when the Noswraith lunges at him, pulling against its bindings. “What in the nine hells?” he cries, fairly flinging the frame from him.

I catch it and spin it about one finger. “That, my dear Silveri, is agubdagog.”

He shakes his head. “Agubdagog?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s so small!”

“Well, it isn’t the entiregubdagog.The rest of the mess is strung up in the old south salon.”

“But . . . but how does it . . . ?” He can’t find the words to finish his question. I don’t blame him. In all my years as Prince of Vespre, I’d never guessed at the true purpose of the great tangled structures, thinking them only another unfathomable troll oddity.

In quick, clipped tones, I inform him of my little jaunt into the city and the subsequent dealings with the low priestess. For the moment, I do not relate the agreement to turn the city over to trollfolk. One shock at a time is enough for the poor fellow.

Mixael takes it all in, his face pale and drawn. “Is Captain Khas all right?” he asks, his voice tense.

“She’ll recover.” It’s no secret, the torch my senior librarian has been carrying for my captain of the guard this last century or so. “You can see her once you’ve secured this binding.”

Mixael takes thegubdagog,turns it round in his hand again. “You really think there’s any point in pursuing this? You think it could make a difference?”

“I do.”

He looks at me. It’s the same sharp, incisive stare his mother used to level on me. In that moment, there is so much of Nelle Silveri in his face, it takes me aback. “And you don’t think your perspective might be unduly influenced by Miss Darlington, sir?”

Nelle would have put it far more bluntly. At least her son still feels the need for some tact while dealing with me.

“Time will tell,” I answer coldly. “In the meanwhile, we shall see how long the grace of the priestess lasts and be grateful for a reprieve from Anj and all his infernal rabble-rousing. Agreed?”

Though the look in his eye tells a different story, Mixael murmurs a polite acquiescence and vacates the room,gubdagogin hand. He shuts the door behind him.

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