Page 4 of Enslaved

I shake my head. Nervous excitement churns in my gut. I’d wanted more time, but this is it. This is my chance to prove what I set out to prove. “They’re not art, they’re . . . they’restories.”

The Prince’s brow puckers. He doesn’t bother to speak but simply turns and looks around the room again. His gaze comes to rest on the guard’s shoe wrapped up in threads like a fly snared in spider silk, suspended a foot or so above the floor. It turns slowly in place. “I don’t think I’m following you, Darling.”

I turn from him and grip the empty frame. It’s supported by three large, complicated knots. Other loose threads hang with broken bits of canvas fabric in the empty air between the gold filigree framework. It looks like junk. But when I turn the frame toward me . . . a flashing image crosses my mind of a black cat, snarling, lunging at me with claws and teeth.

I gasp and nearly drop the frame. Instead I shake my head and look again. It’s empty save for those dangling threads. But it worked. It served to trap the Noswraith as effectively as any written spell. Possibly better.

“Come see.” I turn to the Prince. “And try not to bring it all crashing down, will you?”

He casts me an irritable look, but by virtue of his fae grace manages to duck and weave his way through Sis’s handiwork without looking completely awkward in the process. Soon he stands beside me. “Fine then,” he mutters, “show me what’s the bother.”

Then he looks at the frame. His face goes very still. A few moments more and a muscle in his jaw ticks. He sees it. I know he does. Finally, he lets out a breath and whispers, “Impossible!”

I step back—ducking to avoid three large broken stones which clack together gently—making room as the Prince circles the frame, studying it with care. At one point, he pokes the dangling threads in the center, and I could swear Bheluphnu lashes out at him with curved claws. The Prince retracts his hand, but not in a sharp, reflexive action. He’s very calm, poised. At last, he tips his head back, surveying the rest of the tangle attached to the walls and ceiling, filling most of the room. His eyes glitter in the moonfire.

I can’t help watching him. It’s all too easy to let my gaze linger on the finer points of his features—the sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones, the brightness of his eye, the sardonic set of his brow. His full, dangerously tilted lips. Strange . . . I’d not realized until this moment how much I’ve missed seeing his face. Rather more than I like to admit.

Granted, it’s just because he’s so beautiful. One would miss seeing the sunset if one hadn’t for several days running, wouldn’t one? It doesn’t have tomeananything. The Prince and I are enemies. We can’t help it. I killed his mother. He bought my Obligation. I saved his life, indebting him to me. We’ve both obliged each other to do things the other wouldn’t wish to do. What’s more, I fully intend to oblige him again. Just as soon as opportunity arises.

Only two more days until . . . until . . .

The Prince turns abruptly, catching my gaze. “Did you let Bheluphnu out on purpose?

I swallow. Then nod.

His face darkens. He takes a step toward me. Suddenly he seems much taller, broader, and more menacing than he had a moment ago. “That was reckless. Has your time in Vespre not yet taught you to treat Noswraiths with more care, respect, and fear than this?”

I steel my spine. “Would you have let me release him if I’d asked?”

“Absolutely not.” His violet eyes snap like sparks. “I wouldn’t risk letting even a minor wraith like Bheluphnu savage the dreams of Vespre’s citizens.”

Of course not. Because he is, despite all his brashness and sarcasm and vanity, a careful, conscientious ruler. While I may not like to acknowledge his virtues, even I cannot deny them completely.

But he doesn’t know everything. In his care for the library and his concern for the cityfolk of Vespre, he’s failed to look at possibilities beyond his immediate scope. As a result, the city survives but only under threat of constant peril. It could be better. We could be better. I’m sure of it.

I lower my lashes, take a moment to compose myself. I’ve practiced this conversation numerous times in my head. Only I’d always imagined I would have secured the low priestess’s support and blessing before I brought my proposal to the Prince. “I . . . I believe thegubdagogsmight be the key to saving Vespre.”

“What?This?” He once more inspects the tangled mess surrounding us. He shakes his head. “It’s impressive work, I’ll grant you. I’ve never seen anything of Eledrian make that could hold a Noswraith even temporarily. There’s magic here. Unique magic, clever even.” His gaze swivels to meet mine. “But it won’t last. It can’t. Here.” With that he reaches out, takes hold of my wrist, and pulls my hand close to the dangling threads hanging inside the frame. “Feel that. The enchantment is already beginning to fray.”

I swallow hard, determined not to be so very aware of the burn where his skin touches mine. Instead, I concentrate on the humming magic of thegubdagog,feel the Noswraith pushing against its bonds. For now the spell of tangled thread restrains it. But the Prince is right. It cannot last.

I shake my hand free of his grasp and take a backward step. “This is the work of a mere child. Sis’s work.” My voice is a little tight. I put my hands behind my back, rubbing my still-hot wrist, and clear my throat. “In fact, this is the second time she has successfully managed to catch and hold a Noswraith in one of hergubdagogs.”

The Prince’s brows lift. “Really?” I can’t tell if he’s interested or incredulous. Possibly both.

I hurry on, describing the squat, fat, hairy Noswraith which had infiltrated my room. How I’d chased it with quill and book. How it had slipped under the children’s bedroom door only to become ensnared in Sis’s creation. “I transferred it into a grimoire, of course, and Mixael secured the binding. But the knot was strong enough to catch and hold it until I could get it properly bound.”

He runs a finger along his upper lip thoughtfully. “It’s certainly an intriguing story,” he says, turning to eye the frame and its captive once more. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there might be some use for trapping small wraiths such as these. But I still can’t—”

“I saw agubdagogholding the Striker.”

My words ring sharp, hovering there in the Prince’s abrupt silence. He stares at me, as though he does not comprehend. Then he tips his head a little to one side. “The Striker has been missing for over a year. All attempts to track it down have utterly failed.”

“It’s in the temple,” I reply. “In the hall of the low priestess. I’ve seen it.”

The Prince listens then as I describe my visit to Umog Grush and thegubdagogsI’d glimpsed in the darkness, illuminated by the light of the crystal on the end of her staff. As I speak, his expression darkens until he’s positively glowering. “How many times have you ventured to the low temple on your own?” he demands at length.

“Never,” I respond truthfully enough. “I brought Khas and Lir.”

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