Page 5 of Enslaved

His lip curls, his gritted teeth flashing. “It’s dangerous. Lower Vespre is no place for a human. You should have asked me to accompany you.”

“You wouldn’t have come. You wouldn’t have seen the use.”

“That’s true enough. I certainly don’t see how any benefit you hope to achieve could possibly be worth the risk to your very life.”

I refuse to waver under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s only because you don’t value my children. But I do. They are my responsibility, and I will do all I can for them.”

“You have a dangerous habit of assuming responsibilities no one else would put upon you.”

“If that’s the cost of caring for Dig, Har, Calx, and Sis, so be it.”

He draws a long breath through flared nostrils. Then, with a quick backward step, he puts some distance between us and crosses his arms, looking down his nose at me. “So what do you intend to do exactly?”

It’s not a lot, but it feels like he’s relenting. “I intend to go back to the low priestess,” I say, excitement tinging my voice. “I hope she will agree to train Sis and possibly Lir as well, since Lir has been helping Sis and has picked up some knack for it. In fact, I would like to see a whole host of trollgubdagog-ists weaving tangles and hanging them around the palace and the library to catch escaping Noswraiths.” His expression is still hard, so I hurry on eagerly. “You know there aren’t enough human magicians left in the worlds to deal with the sheer number of Noswraiths here in Vespre. This could give those of us who remain a fighting chance!”

His eyes rove across my face. I’m not sure I like the way he studies me, reads me. “This idea has certainly captured your imagination,” he says at last. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you so animated.”

A blush steals up my neck into my cheeks. But I won’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing how he discomfits me. I hold his gaze. “Will you allow me to go to the low priestess? Will you allow me to show her this?” I wave a hand to indicate the frame in which the Noswraith is snared.

The Prince presses his lips into a line, irresistibly drawing my attention to his mouth. He is silent again. Infuriatingly so. Is he trying to make me burst with impatience?

I’m on the verge of speaking again, when he finally turns and sweeps his gaze across thegubdagogsurrounding us once more. “It’s an interesting proposal. I’ve never seen an alternate form of story-keeping intricate enough to hold a Noswraith. Indeed, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Certainly not from trolls.” Then he shakes his head. “Regardless, you must acknowledge these story-threads are not practical for long-term storage. They take up far too much space.”

I shrug. “It doesn’t do away with the need for librarians. But it could provide a buffer. It could give us a chance.”

His chin still lifted, he flashes me a look from beneath his lashes. “When you set your mind on something, there’s no power in this or any world that can sway you, is there? For better or for worse, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

Despite myself, I can’t quite suppress the grin that pulls at my mouth. “And in this instance? Is this for better or for worse?”

“I have yet to decide.” His lips tilt.

Then abruptly he sweeps a hand over his head and yanks the frame down from its suspending threads. I gasp as the wholegubdagogshudders, convinced the Noswraith will burst free. The Prince tenses as well. He holds up the frame and stares at it, silently daring the captive to try something. Magic twists and churns.

Then, as thegubdagogaround us settles back into place, so too does the magic within the frame. Somehow—though I cannot begin to understand it—the spell has not been broken. Bheluphnu remains imprisoned.

The Prince turns that gods-blighted smile of his my way. “Shall we, Darling?”

“Shall we what?”

“You’ve convinced me. I think it’s time that you, I, and that feral girl-child of yours paid a visit to the low priestess of Vespre.”

The children have found a nest ofquousn.These creatures are somewhat like hedgehogs, only with scales rather than spines, and long spindly legs, jointed like an insect’s, which they generally keep tucked close to their soft underbellies. They are quite common in Vespre and can be severely destructive due to their tendency to burrow through the soft sedimentary stone from which the city dwellings are carved.

They also apparently make for excellent bowling balls.

Calx lets out an ear-splitting whoop as hisquousncareens down the passage and knocks into the assorted bric-a-brac they’ve arranged in lieu of ninepins. A crystal vase, a stone cup, a half-full bottle of spirits, and an ink stand fly every which way. Sis shrieks either in rage or adulation—it’s hard to say which—and doesn’t wait for her brothers to rearrange the objects before she sends her own little balled-up creature hurtling after the first. The two animals ping off each other and shoot in different directions, rolling underneath stone furniture. If they were wise, they would unfurl and run for freedom. Butquousnare known more for durability than intelligence.

Sis raises her arms over her head as though she’s scored some point. Whirling in a circle, she spies me at the end of the passage. Her smile widens, and she throws herself at me, shouting,“Mar! Mar! Mar!”

Instantly, the boys take up her cry. I brace myself for the oncoming assault of affection. The Prince, who stands but a pace or two behind me, utters an incredulous, “Gods spare us, the hordes are descending.”

The next moment I’m overwhelmed. Calx’s hard little body hits my thigh while Sis springs directly for my neck. Dig and Har crowd in close, arms outstretched, but thankfully don’t knock me clean off my feet as they used to. “Settle down now, children!” I cry, struggling to make my voice heard above their din. “The Prince has come to see you. Please, show him your best behavior.”

Four small troll heads and four pairs of troll eyes turn upon the Prince. He has only time enough to utter another, “Gods above!” before they swarm him. Calx uses Dig’s head as a stepping stool in order to wrap his stone arms affectionately around the Prince’s neck, giving a squeeze that makes his eyes bulge. “Children!” I gasp. “We don’t throttle princes! That’snotour best behavior!”

To my surprise, however, the Prince pries Calx’s arms free with very little effort and holds the heavy stone boy at arm’s length. Even as Sis climbs up his back and Dig and Har dance around his knees, he gives Calx a stern once-over. “I say,” he declares, “this is as stout a specimen of trolldom as I’ve ever seen.”

I’m never entirely certain how well my children understand any language but their own. Calx, however, takes the Prince’s meaning at once. A huge, diamond-tooth grin breaks across his ugly face. I would swear he blushed if it were possible for a blush to show through that stony hide. The next moment, the Prince plunks him down heavily on his two flat feet, then deftly shrugs Sis from his shoulders. “Gurat!”he barks in a harsh trollish accent. “Orghrumbu, borugabah. Mazogal!”

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