Page 8 of Enslaved

“Veer neither to the right nor the left,” I whisper as we leave behind the moonfire glow. It’s the instruction I was given on my last visit to the temple. I hope it holds true now.

“Damned trolls and their damned darkness,” the Prince mutters behind me. Something touches my hand. Before I can react, long, strong fingers interlace with mine.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“I’m scared of the dark, obviously.” His grip tightens. “As you’ve been here before, you’d best take the lead.”

I ought to wrench free. But don’t. I wouldn’t want to end up in a tussle practically in the doorway of the sacred temple, would I? “All right,” I growl, “stay close.”

“Is this close enough?”

His words breathe against the shell of my ear. My breath catches. He stands much nearer than he was a moment before. Does he feel my thudding pulse through the pressure of his palm against mine? Do his enhanced fae senses detect every tiny reaction his touch inspires in me? Even now, even when I cannot see his physical beauty, the height and breadth and strength of him is almost overwhelming.

I inhale sharply and take a step back. “It’s easier if you close your eyes,” I say, my voice cold, emotionless. “Try not to step on my heels.”

With that, I lead the way into the low temple.

The deeper we go, the more the passage seems to close in around us. I don’t know if it’s real or a hallucination brought on by this devastating darkness, but I could almost swear I hear the rocks grinding against one another as they slide in closer, closer, closer. Terror urges me to reach out, to feel the walls on either side, to make certain they remain in place. But the Prince holds my hand firmly in his grasp, and I’m grateful now for that anchoring touch. With my other hand knotted tight in the folds of my skirt, I stride onward without hesitation.

Abruptly the closeness around us vanishes. We stand at the brink of a huge chasm in a wide, empty space. Up ahead a gleam of silver light just illuminates the great stone throne which stands in the very center of this massive cavern.

“There’s power here.” The Prince’s voice startles me after such a long silence. He speaks softly, but the walls catch the words in eerie echo. “Strange power. I don’t . . . I don’t know . . .”

“It’s thegubdagogs,” I say. They’re all around us, though the light is not strong enough to reveal them. Vast, intricate, incomprehensible tangles of thread and debris, weaving and capturing old troll tales. Among other things. Somewhere out there, the Striker is wrapped in story-threads, struggling to break free. His malice blends with the pulse of troll magic, dark and eager for vengeance.

“Come,” I urge, tugging the Prince’s hand. He’s gone still as a statue behind me. “Umog Grush is waiting.”

The words have scarcely left my mouth when a bright peal of laughter echoes off the walls, making the unseengubdagogssway and ripple in response. “Sis!” I gasp and take a single lunging step.

The Prince yanks me back hard. “Watch out.”

I look down. By the dim light, I faintly see the dilapidated rope bridge before me. My throat tightens with dread. “It’s all right,” I say, my words belied by the tremble in my voice. “I’ve been this way before. Come on.”

The Prince utters another curse. “Sometimes, Darling, your courage looks rather too much like lunacy to the rest of us.”

Ignoring him, I proceed onto the bridge, tugging him along after me. In some ways it was easier the last time I came this way. Then I’d walked completely blind. I hadn’t seen just how decrepit the rotten boards and frayed ropes were. Ignorance was bliss.

But Sis’s laugh draws me on like a beacon. The nearer we come to the throne, the brighter the light glows, until I can finally discern the source: a large crystal caught at the end of a tall sapling staff. The huge hand gripping that staff is attached to a large, boulder-shaped person. The low priestess of Vespre. Light glints off flecks of mica in her hard stone hide as she turns her head and shoulders this way and that, trying to keep an eye on Sis. The girl scrambles around the throne like it’s her personal playground, chattering in trollish all the while. The contrast between my pretty, delicate child and the fantastically ugly priestess is almost comical. Only no one would dare laugh in the face of Umog Grush.

Sis suddenly spies our approach along the bridge. A delighted squeal bursts from her lips, and she flings herself down from the throne, straight for me. She hits hard and wraps herself around my knees, causing me to stagger back heavily.

Strong hands grip me under the arms. “Careful, Darling,” murmurs a low voice in my ear. The skin along my neck prickles.

“Jirot,”the priestess rumbles, her voice rolling down like an avalanche from her high seat. “Grakol-dura.”She turns the staff in her hand, angling the light of the crystal so that it beams down on us. It’s too bright, painful even. I put up a hand to shield my eyes, still leaning on the Prince’s support. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to let go of me.“Grakol-dura, Umog,”he calls over my head.

The priestess snorts. “Your accent stinks like morleth scat. You will not dishonor me by speaking the Stone Tongue in my presence.”

The Prince’s hands tense against my ribcage. Finally, he sets me upright, though one hand slips to rest against my waist, a subtly protective gesture. His voice has an edge when he replies, “While your speech, gentleumog,falls upon my ears like the soft petals of thejirublossom caught in the blast of a hurricane.”

I lower my hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the priestess’s face. Will she take offense? The light is too bright; I can distinguish nothing.

After an agonizing pause, Grush lets out a bark of laughter. “Bravely spoken for an elfkin prince!” She tilts her staff away so that the crystal no longer shines directly in our eyes. Now it casts a glow across her throne and the stone platform at its base. Beyond the platform is nothing but plunging darkness, while overhead I can just glimpse the toothy edges of stalactites and the interweaving threads of thegubdagogs.

I look down into Sis’s face. She’s still wrapped around me, her shining eyes upturned to mine. “Are you all right?”

“Korkor!”she responds with another trilling laugh. “Umog and me is very good, and she hashirala,and she says I am akarrhig!”

I turn to the Prince, uncertain about that last word. “Nuisance,” he replies and ruffles Sis’s hair, making the soft pale strands stand upright like thistledown. “An insightful one, this low priestess.”

---