Page 53 of Enslaved

“She didn’t die immediately,” he continues at last. “She clung to life for some days following her encounter with the Eyeless Woman. My father, more desperate than I’ve ever seen him, conceived a mad scheme to save her. The turn of the cycles was right, and stars appeared in the heavens above Solira. He took this as an omen from the gods, and we set out together, determined to fetch the Water of Life and save her.

“But we were not prepared for the guardian of the fountain.

“We followed the Volodar, just as others have done before us and others will in times to come. By luck or grace, we made our way to these very towers and found entrance into the palace itself. We descended through the cavernous halls, scorched and yet still beautiful. Remnants of the glory of ages past.

“In the center of Volodaris lies the fountain and its ever-present guardian. She is Oasuroa, last of the Dragons of Othorion. She and her brothers and sisters were sent by the gods to take back the fountain and its waters. The others all perished in the war that followed, but Oasuroa—she whom the elfkin named Bringer of Death—remains. Ordained with holy purpose, she guards the waters of the sacred fountain, ensuring none but those of purest heart should benefit from its blessing.

“Now my father believed even Oasuroa would be convinced by the purity of his motives. No man ever loved a woman as Lodírhal loved Dasyra. So when he stood before the terrible beast and begged leave to take but a mouthful of water home to his dying wife, he did not doubt what the dragon’s answer would be.

“But Oasuroa looked at him long and hard with her one good eye. For a great while she studied him without speaking. At last, however, she declared my father’s motives impure. As a Fatebound, he would die himself at the loss of his wife. The dragon declared that Lodírhal was as much motivated by survival as by love.”

The Prince falls silent again for some while as we draw nearer and nearer to those two great towers. Finally, wondering if he’ll even hear me over the whistling wind, I ask, “And you?”

“Oasuroa turned to me next.” His voice is rough with shame, with sorrow. “But she asserted I did not seek my mother’s health so much as I sought to redeem myself in my father’s eyes.”

I can offer no answer, no comfort. Nothing I can say will ease his pain, will make him feel any less of a failure.

“Lodírhal would have fought the beast,” the Prince continues, speaking into my silence. “He would have let himself be burnt to a cinder attempting to reach the fountain. But I wrestled him down, pulled him out of there alive. I could not have done so were it not for the weakening in his flesh caused by his bond to my mother. He did not thank me for it. I believe he would have preferred to die down there, never forced to face a world without Dasyra in it.”

The wyvern circles the towers now, searching for a place to land. They are even more impressive up close than they had seemed from afar, so dazzling and tall under the magicked starlight. We land at last, and the wyvern stomps its feet and holds out its wings, giving us space to dismount. The Prince helps me down, and we stand together, staring up at the tower. My magicked sky is fading now; sunlight gleams on those sand-blasted stones, glaringly bright. There are inlaid precious gems and carvings etched into every square inch, thick with dirt but still visible, still beautiful. I cannot imagine how magnificent the original palace must have been back in its glory days.

“How are we to get in?” I wonder.

The Prince grunts and approaches the tower, circling around its base. I follow, not liking to be left alone, and the wyvern grunts and trails behind us. We’ve nearly circled the whole structure when we come upon a door partially buried. It’s cracked open. “This is how Lodírhal and I got in five years ago,” the Prince says, digging some of the soft sand away from the opening. With a little effort, he pries the door open a few more inches. “There’s magic preventing the sand from getting into the palace itself. An old spell—whether fae or dragon, I cannot guess.”

I peer through. It’s dark inside. Pitch dark. I draw a steadying breath.

“Here, this will help.” The Prince passes his hands over one another then claps. When he pulls them apart again, a little sphere of light glows between his palms. He hands it to me. It’s cool to the touch but burns brighter than a candle. “Find a lantern to carry it in as soon as you can,” he warns. “Fae enchantment won’t last long in your human hand.”

I look up sharply from the little glamour light. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

To my horror, he shakes his head. “Oasuroa cast me out. I am forbidden by the gods themselves from approaching the sacred waters again. I cannot go with you, Darling.”

My breath catches. Slowly, I turn from him to that dark doorway. How small and frail the light he’s given me seems in the face of that blackness. Blood throbs in my ears. I only faintly register the instructions the Prince is giving me, directions through the palace, how to reach the fountain, how not to get lost in the enormous, twisting passages. When he’s done, I’m still standing there, still staring into those shadows, into that dark. Wondering how in the worlds I’ve come to be here.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” the Prince says softly behind me. “We can turn back. It’s not too late.”

But I scarcely hear him. For in that darkness, deep down, a subtle voice hisses:Selfish.

“Wait for me, Prince,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I shall return soon.” Then, holding the enchanted light up high, I enter the palace of High King Illithorin.

It’s a long descent down the tower stair. Round and round, down and down, until my head is dizzy and my knees are wobbly and weak. Still I keep going, cradling the Prince’s light in the palm of my hand.

I can’t see much by that gentle glow. Here and there mere impressions of ancient, ornate architecture reveal themselves. A great deal of gold, delicate filigrees and moldings, melted by dragon flame, blackened by dragon smoke. But it’s enough to provide a glimpse into an age long ago, grander and more glorious by far than Aurelis or any of the other fae courts.

There’s a sense of slowcrushing.The weight of time and sand pressing in on all the spells which keep this place standing. One day, possibly soon, that magic will give out. Then the palace will be drowned in this desert, lost forever along with its precious fountain. I simply have to trust that day is not today.

At last I step from the tower stair out into an enormous, vaulted space of which I can see very little. Here and there a hiss of falling sand tickles my ears. I shudder, thinking of the chinks and crevices in the enchantment holding this place together. Best to keep moving. Best to complete my business and get out of here as soon as possible. I don’t let myself consider whether my motives are pure enough to satisfy a dragon. That’s a problem for future me.

“Find the story,”the Prince had said when telling me how to make my way. “It’s depicted on the walls. Follow it, and it will lead you to the fountain.”

I shuffle across the floor to the far wall, holding up my light. But whatever images may once have graced this space were long ago melted in that crucible of dragon flame. Still, something must have survived, or the Prince would not have given such instruction. I continue, crossing the great space to another wall, then another. The glamour light flickers, threatening to go out. My heart jumps. The idea of being stuck down here in total darkness . . . no. No, I simply cannot have it.

The Prince had said to find a lantern, which must mean there are lanterns to be had. A hasty search produce a dented, dingy old globe of some metal tracery shaped like a sun. When I put the light inside, immediately the metal transforms into gold, creating the illusion that I carry a small sun before me. The Prince’s little spell is certainly happy contained in that globe. Its light brightens tenfold. As a result, I’m able to get a better sense of my shadowy surroundings.

And there—there, on the far wall at the very end of this enormous corridor, a massive mural gleams. Though my legs are exhausted from the stair, a sudden surge of eagerness sets me running. The nearer I draw to the mural, the larger, more overwhelming it seems. It’s five times the size of even the tallest fae man and rendered in elaborate mosaic work with a million multi-colored stones. Fire-proof stones, apparently. Though dragon smoke has dimmed their hues, the images remain clear, almost lifelike. I wonder who did this work? The elfkin themselves are not creators. Perhaps it’s dwarven make. Or even human.

The mural itself depicts a story with which I am unfamiliar, legends of some ancient hero—Illithorin himself, unless I miss my guess. It extends down the wall, turns a corner, and continues from there. I follow it as the Prince instructed, holding up my globe and studying the images, trying to make sense of the tale. It seems Illithorin performed a series of heroic acts in the name of the gods—tremendous feats of strength, brilliant maneuvers of strategy and cunning, all while wooing any number of exotic beauties from across the worlds. I’ve never encountered any of these stories, not in all my years working in Aurelis library. I have to wonder how true they are, if at all. Most likely Illithorin himself invented them as a means of securing his reign over a united Eledria.

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