Page 86 of Enslaved

Steam curls before my eyes, stings my nostrils. I shake my head, and my swimming gaze lands upon Ivor’s cruel face. “You’re deceiving me,” I say. “Your words are nothing more than poisonous implications, but you will not say what you mean. Your fae blood prevents you from speaking an outright lie.”

Ivor shrugs. “I thought perhaps to spare your feelings. But if you need more . . .” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knee. When he speaks, he enunciates with perfect clarity: “It was Castien Lodírith, son of Lodírhal, Prince of Vespre, and renounced heir of Aurelis who bargained with the crones and placed a curse upon your brother, Oscar Darlington. A curse which even now poisons your brother’s soul.”

I can’t breathe. I find and lean against the wall, determined not to let my legs give out.

Ivor rises and approaches through the steam, smiling like a demon infiltrating a dream. He leans over me, one hand pressed against the wall by my face. “I’ll leave you now,” he says. “I must make ready for the rite. You will attend Estrilde in my absence and observe all from the royal box. I hope to hear your voice in the crowd cheering me on. After all, once I’ve skewered Castien on the end of my blade, the curse on your brother will be broken. Then perhaps you will appreciate your gracious lord and show him the proper deference and”—his eyes run slowly down my body then back up again—“gratitude.”

With those words, he leaves me. Leaves me in that hot, steaming chamber, pressed against the wall. Shaking so hard I can scarcely stand.

Sounds, colors, smells dance across my senses. A storm of chaos from which there can be no escape. And in the eye of that storm, my soul stands. Numb. Unfeeling. Immobile even as my body moves and breathes and acts according to natural impulses.

All Aurelis is in uproar over the rite. The betrothal ball is forgotten, and the merrymakers come together now eager for a display of violence and blood. Princess Estrilde, surrounded by her entourage of friends and admirers, preens and prattles, projecting absolute confidence in the outcome of the coming battle. She has adorned herself in crimson silk, and her nails are glamoured to be black, long, and curved like raptor talons. A crown of black antlers sprouts from her forehead, bejeweled in dangling rubies like drops of blood. She looks as though she belongs in Lord Vokarum’s hall.

Obligated by my master to serve his betrothed, I stand at the back of Estrilde’s party, carrying the end of her long red train. She does not look my way. I may as well not exist for all the attention she pays me. For this at least I am grateful.

We progress from the princess’s chambers through the palace, making our way to the viewing box from which she and King Lodírhal will observe the rite. Fawning courtiers crowd as close as they dare, offering her their best wishes for her future husband’s success and the securing of both his crown and hers. No one bothers to mention that, should the Prince and Ivor manage to kill each other, Lodírhal would be forced at last to give the throne to his niece. Such words would be tactless, inappropriate to speak in the presence of a devoted bride-to-be. But everyone is thinking it. I can see it in their wary faces.

I drop my gaze, study the black embroidery on the edge of the garment in my hands, concentrate on placing one foot after the other. A dull droning pulses in my ear. And lower still, in the depths of my mind, voices whisper ceaselessly.

Clara, Clara, my darling, I love you . . .

Three days of pain . . . then will I harvest . . .

He bargained with the crones . . . placed a curse upon your brother . . .

And deepest of all, down in the darkest pit of my mind:You’re not seeing rightly . . . you’re not seeing—

“Clara!”

Startled, I turn. Danny steps from an alcove, emerging behind Estrilde’s party, avoiding his mistress’s gaze. He staggers to my side, limping, struggling. Though someone has swathed him in glamours to hide his many wounds, they cannot hide the pain scoring his features.

He reaches out to take my hand, and I don’t have the energy to resist, though it means I must carry Estrilde’s train one-handed now. “Clara, did he hurt you?” Danny whispers, his voice strangled. “Gods on high, if he so much as touched you, I swear I’ll kill him with my bare hands!”

Danny. Sweet Danny. Gentle, kind, good Danny.

Oh, what have they done to you?

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head and squeezing his fingers. “I’m unhurt. I swear.”

He looks at me, his desperate eyes scanning my face. He doesn’t believe me. No doubt the hollows under my eyes, the pinched line of my mouth belie my words.

I turn away, unable to bear his gaze. Then, dropping his hand, I reach into the front of my bodice. I’d half-forgotten the bloodgem I’d tucked down there for safe keeping. Its evil miasma burns against my fingertips. It’s a relief to draw it away from my heart. “Here,” I say, pressing the stone into Danny’s hand.

He looks down at it. His eyes widen. “Clara, is this—”

“Give it to Estrilde. She must break your Obligation then.”

“What about you?” He lifts his gaze back to mine. “This was meant to break your Obligation, Clara. Not mine. It was meant to save you.”

“I don’t care.” I shake my head viciously, the words grinding between my teeth. “As long as you’re home safe, Danny, I don’t care about any of the rest of it.”

With that, I duck my head and hasten on, leaving Danny slumped against the wall. I hope he’ll do what I ask. I hope he won’t try anything stupid. At least let this one small thing work out for the best—let Danny return home to his sister, let the two of them not suffer any worse for having known me.

We step through a doorway out into the open air, following lantern-lit walkways. Summit Night is still deep and dark overhead, but it’s hard to discern the twinkling stars through the glamour glows all around. We approach the arena, a great open-air structure which I have only ever seen from a distance. I cannot comprehend either its size or the noise emanating from it. My senses lock down, erecting high walls, a feeble protection around my pathetic soul.

We climb a stair, Estrilde up ahead, me many paces behind, still bearing her train. The stair leads to a canopied box swathed in golden curtains and richly furnished. Servants flit about with trays of dainty fruits, skewered meats, and glasses of sparkling brews. Garlands of golden roses—ylyndar,the Rose of Dawn, an emblem of Aurelis—wreathe the balcony rail overlooking the arena. The whole space reeks of their perfume.

In the center of all is Lodírhal—the withered, gray king, propped up on a pile of cushions to oversee proceedings. As though he weren’t blind and insensible to the activity around him. Is he even aware of where he is or why? Does he know that in mere moments his son and chosen heir will fight to the death all for the sake of that golden crown resting crookedly on his balding head?

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