Page 6 of Enslaved

I have no idea what he just said, but it works like an enchantment. Immediately all four children form a line from tallest to smallest, arms straight at their sides, heads up, eyes fixed on the Prince. I can only stand there, gaping at this miracle. Perhaps I should have asked his help managing my small brood a long time ago.

The Prince clasps his hands behind his back and looks down his nose at the four of them. He nods solemnly then turns his attention solely upon Sis. He speaks a stream of trollish, of which I only understand the wordgubdagog. Sis beams at him and responds in her bright, prattling voice. The Prince nods and responds with one word: “Oglub.”

Sis positively simpers in response to this, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears and wriggling like a happy puppy. The Prince asks her another question, to which she responds with an enthusiastic, “Korkor!” a word I recognize as trollish foryes.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Sis and I have just agreed to pay a visit to the low temple,” the Prince replies.

“Korkor!”Sis lunges to take my hand, swinging my arm painfully back and forth. “Korkor! Korkor!I goes to see theumog!I goes to show her mygubdagog!”

The boys, jealous at this extra attention being paid their sister, protest that they too want to go. I hasten to assure them we will be back soon and even promise the Prince will have dinner with them later—though how I’m going to make good on that promise, I’m not entirely certain. It’s been weeks since the Prince and I dined in each other’s company, and certainly never with the children present. Dig and Har, however, are satisfied, and Calx is appeased with numerous kisses to the top of his craggy head. At last I peel away, Sis still hanging from my arm, and follow after the Prince.

Not long after, we leave the palace behind and find ourselves on the broad road leading down into Lower Vespre. Captain Khas acts as our escort, leading the way, tall, silent, and dangerous. In the last month, her broken arm has healed thanks to the magic lacing the air of this world. She keeps one hand gripping the hilt of her sword, and her wary gaze darts this way and that, on the lookout for potential threat.

The Prince, by contrast, strides along with an easy, nonchalant gait, his long hair flowing over his shoulders, his open coat flapping behind him. As per usual, his shirt is only partially buttoned, and those few buttons seem on the verge of slipping. He has a habit of looking as though he’s rushed from his chambers halfway through dressing, yet somehow always contrives to look polished and put-together. It’s a dichotomy for which I have no explanation.

Sis walks between us, prattling on in trollish about I know not what. It’s a long walk from the palace to the low temple, but the child is a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. Now and then, the Prince answers her in her own tongue. He grinds the words out in a harsh accent, but whatever he says seems to delight Sis. She peals with laughter in response to each growled remark.

Suddenly, she takes hold of the Prince’s hand. I glance over her head in time to see the startled expression spread across his face. His brow puckers. For a moment, I think he’s going to shake off her fingers. But he doesn’t. He tightens his hold, looks up, catches my eye, and winks.

My whole face floods with heat. Blood pounds in my ears so that I almost don’t hear him when he says, “One, two, three . . .” At the last second, I realize what he’s doing. Responding to his lead, I adjust my grip, and together we swing Sis right off her feet in front of us. She lets out another bright, bell-like burst of laughter, kicking her little pantalooned legs up high.

The Prince’s chuckle tickles my ear. It’s so surprising, for a moment I don’t recognize it. This isn’t the scornful, mirthless laugh I’ve heard him utter more times than I like to count. It’s sincere. Almost playful. The sound shoots straight to my heart and makes my stomach flip.

He goes on to swing Sis three more times, until I declare my arm is about to break off. Sis starts to whine in disappointment, then bursts into more giggles when the Prince scoops her up and settles her on his shoulders. She clasps his forehead and digs her pointy chin into the top of his skull, all while he grips her kicking ankles to hold her in place. She sticks a finger in his eye, and he howls and spins on heel, making her squeal with giddy delight. It’s all so . . . I hardly know what to make of it. I never could have imagined the Prince like this, so easy, so playful.

It's difficult to remember he is my enemy.

We progress down into the low city, farther and farther from the twinkling stars in the perpetually twilit sky. The shadows deepen. There are few lamps to illuminate the dark, winding streets, so Khas holds a moonfire lantern out before us. Wherever its light falls, there’s an impression of sudden emptiness. As though whatever was there a moment before ducked out of sight just before the light reached it.

Khas pauses at last and looks back at the three of us. Tense lines frame her eyes and mouth. “My Prince, if we keep going, we’re going to end up cut off.”

The Prince nods. Sis’s hands are wrapped around his forehead, making it difficult to discern his expression. He looks calm enough, however, and says only, “If we leave now and come back later, theHrorarkwill be waiting for us. As it is, perhaps we can get in and out before Anj has time to muster much of a force.” He shrugs, shifting Sis in her seat on his shoulders. “We’ve come this far; may as well see it through.”

We proceed more swiftly now. I resist the urge to reach out and slip my hand through the crook of the Prince’s elbow. I don’t want him to think I’m lacking in courage. Instead I stick as close to his side as I dare and try to keep my gaze focused on Khas. Was this a mistake, venturing to the low temple while the city is rife with unrest? Maybe so. But it’s for the city’s own sake we take this risk. Surely they can understand that.

I glance up at the Prince, at the firm set of his jaw. “Why do the cityfolk hate you so?” I ask, my voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Are you really so hard a ruler?”

He tips his gaze down to me, that sardonic gleam back in his eye. “Didn’t you know? I’m a regular tyrant.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“Brrrrr, frosty, are we?” He shivers and hunches his shoulders, making Sis yelp in protest. But he continues: “It’s not as though their fae overlords have been the kindest of friends over the many turns of the cycle. When I first came to Vespre, I was just one more in a long line of princes sent to master these folk. What’s worse, I brought the library with me, for it had grown beyond Lodírhal’s ability to safely contain in Aurelis.”

I blink at this. “The Noswraiths were originally kept in the Court of Dawn?”

“Why of course.” The Prince shoots me another sharp look. “No other Eledrian realm boasts such a library, built by my father to please my human mother. When the Pledge was first established, the Miphates gave up their Noswraith spellbooks to the fae, who then scrambled to find a safe place to store them. Aurelis was the only option at the time. Soon enough outbreaks began to occur. Books wore down, spells snapped, and nightmares stalked the halls of the palace. My mother and a few other human Obligates fought them back, but it was too much for them to handle.

“It was my father who landed on the brilliant idea of stashing the whole lot in Vespre, along with whatever human librarians he could find. When I came of age, he was only too glad to foist the governance of this whole blighted city on me and otherwise forget its existence.”

“And your mother?” I scarcely dare ask the question. Any mention of Dasyra is enough to send a painful dart of guilt plunging straight through my heart. If it weren’t for me, after all, she would still be alive.

The Prince lets out a small sigh. “She spent much of her time here, assisting with the library. She preferred her plants of course, but she was a powerful mage in her own right. And she cared about the denizens of Vespre even if my father did not.”

We lapse into silence once more, hastening down the street in Khas’s footsteps. Anger roils in the atmosphere, more potent by the moment. Anger from these trolls, occupied and exploited by those who never cared for them or their culture. What difference does it make to them how the Prince exhausts himself and his resources to keep their city from being overrun by nightmares? It was his own people who sent the nightmares to begin with.

A terrible weight of hopelessness settles in my chest.

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