Page 65 of Enslaved

The Prince starts to turn, his gaze searching. Ilusine speaks, drawing his attention back to her. She takes his hand. Then they are dancing. Pulled away into that river of sound among the other dancers even as I slip further and further from the edge of the floor into the shadows of the garden.

“Do you see? Do you see?” a creaky voice speaks off to my right. I spy one of the woodnymphs I’d glimpsed earlier, eagerly bent to gossip in the ear of a bejeweled dwarven dame. “The king’s son is dancing with the Soliran princess! And I thought they were done for good.”

“Oh, that’s just the way with the two of them,” her companion replies with a knowing nod. “One turn of the cycle, they’re not speaking. The next, they’re back in each other’s arms. You know they say she’s his Fatebound.”

“Do they?” The nymph utters with a surprised rattle of branches. “I’ve heard the rumors that he, like his father before him, is destined for a Fated Love. But if it were the princess, would they not have come together already?”

The dwarven dame shrugs. “The ways of the Fatebond are strange. But they are always drawn back to one another; that speaks volumes, does it not? Aye, I would not be at all surprised if the rumors proved true . . .”

By then I’ve backed away too far to catch any more, my stomach knotted so tight, I nearly double over with the pain of it. I stagger, stumble, make my way deeper into the shadows.

Suddenly hands grip my shoulders. “Clara, are you all right? Did you drink fae wine? Clara, answer me!”

“Danny!” I gasp, tipping my head back. I can just discern his face by the light of the nearest lantern, and it is the most welcome sight in all the worlds. “Please, take me somewhere. Away from here. Anywhere. Now.”

Danny leads me up the stair and into the palace. I’m practically blinded by unshed tears and must trust him to guide me through the throngs of merrymakers still arriving, still pouring through the doors into the deepening Summit Night. Once inside, the air feels suffocating. I struggle to breathe, pressing a hand to my side and gasping to hold back on a sob.

Worry tainting his voice, Danny murmurs encouragements I do not fully hear as he leads me at last to a quieter portion of the palace. He opens a door, and I step inside, surprised to find myself in Estrilde’s receiving room. I’ve rarely seen it without Estrilde herself in occupancy. It feels strangely dark and ominous. The tall windows gaze out on an unfamiliar night sky, and the air hums with faraway music.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to bring you,” Danny says, noting the stricken look on my face. “I’m not permitted to roam the palace at will but must return to the princess’s suite if I am not on duty.”

“And your duties now?” I ask, just aware enough to feel concern.

“I’m charged to serve the princess’s guests this evening,” Danny answers with a wry smile. “You are a guest of hers, are you not?”

I manage a shrug but cannot muster the voice to speak. Danny leads me to a chair by the wall. Not one of Estrilde’s beautiful settees or lounges, merely a simple wooden, straight-back seat where her Obligates may perch, awaiting her will. I sink gratefully down, my full skirts settling like a lavender cloud around me, and lean my head against the wall. Danny hovers over me, his hands nervous as he paces. “Is it the wine?” he asks. “The music? Did you eat something?”

“The music, I think,” I answer faintly, closing my eyes. The last thing I want is to try to explain to him. To tell him I’d let the magic of the night seep into my blood, filling me with enchantment. Leading me once more to believe what I know to be impossible. Urging me to trust, to cast myself out into that abyss of possibility . . . only to fall . . .

I bow my head, burying my face in my hands, squeezing my jaw tight to keep back another sob. “I’ll be all right. I just need a moment, I just—”

The door opens. Danny sucks in a sharp breath. I peer through my fingers, heart lurching with terror. Moonlight gleaming through the windows reveals a tall, broad figure standing in the doorway. Clad in green. Crowned in magnificent ram’s horns.

“Your mistress requires your services elsewhere, boy,” Lord Ivor says, addressing Danny without looking his way. Danny begins to protest, but stops short when the golden fae adds harshly, “Go.”

With a last, desperate look my way, Danny turns and marches from the room. He cannot resist the force of Obligation. Not for long. He sidles past Ivor, who steps into the room and shuts the door behind.

So I am alone with the heir to Aurelis.

He stands over me, breathing heavily. When I dare glance up, there’s such a dangerous gleam in his eye, it sends a jolt of fear straight to my belly. I lower my gaze at once, knotting my hands in my lap. A dozen different words spring to my tongue—excuses, protests, trivial pleasantries. All of them die before spoken. I sit there, dumb, stupid. Frightened.

Suddenly, Ivor drops to his knees before me. His hands grip mine, and he gazes into my face, his eyes almost level with mine. I want to look away but cannot. I am mesmerized, fascinated. “Clara,” he says. “I am tortured beyond all bearing.”

I open my mouth. All I can utter is a breathless, “Lord Ivor, I . . . I think perhaps we should return to the dance. Princess Estrilde will be—”

He shakes his head. Tears spark in his eyes. One even spills over, tracing a line down the hard plane of his cheek. The sight of it, of that single tear on the face of so proud and strong a warrior is more terrible than I can express. “Do you think I care about Estrilde?” he demands, his voice wrung with anguish. “Do you think I care about any of this? When I saw you on that dance floor . . . when I saw you with him . . .” He reaches up as though to cup my cheek in his great palm.

With a surge of strength, I spring to my feet and step around him, backing into the room. I’ve never moved so fast or so nimbly in all my life, not even when fleeing the Wild Hunt. Somehow I feel I’ve never been in more danger. The smell of him, the musk of him . . . it’s overwhelming, intoxicating. Thrilling.

He rises, graceful in every move and gesture. Moonlight gleams off the coils of his horns, reflects deep in his eyes. “Tell me, Clara,” he says, taking one step toward me then another. “Tell me what I can do to prove to you what I feel. I know my words mean nothing to you, cruel mistress that you are. So end my suffering—give me a task. Give me a burden. Beg of me a boon. If it be in my power to prove by strength of arm or force of will what a hold you have over me, I shall do it.”

My heart flutters. I should run. He’s not my master. My Obligation belongs to another, which means he cannot force me to stay. But do I want to run? I don’t know. Everything in me seems to be of two minds, one part desperate to remain, to throw myself into his arms and seek the comfort offered there, the other . . .

I draw my shoulders back. My chest rises and falls with the quickness of my breath. Once again I wish I’d refused to wear this lovely, revealing gown. But I clench my fists, inhale deeply, and speak all in rush, “Will you lift the curse on Oasuroa?”

Ivor blinks. The agony in his face melts away into confusion. “What did you say?”

“Oasuroa. The dragon who stands guard over the Water of Life. She bears a terrible curse placed on her by your ancestor, Illithorin, the High King.”

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