Page 32 of Enthralled

My breath catches in my throat. “Calx?”

It’s him. It’s absolutely him. This mountain of a troll man with shoulders the size of a bull ox and arms as big as trees, yet I would recognize that face anywhere. That ugly, beloved, dear little face of my troll son, not quite lost in these mature, craggy lines.

“Calx, you’ve . . . you’ve grown!” All thought of our imminent peril flees my mind. I lift a hand, touch his cheek under the helmet. My heart shivers in my breast, tangled in a snarl of emotions. I don’t know if I’m relieved to have found him, glad to know he’s alive and well and here, or devastated. Devastated at this evidence of just how much I missed. So much. Too much.

“Well, yes,” he answers, tipping his massive head to one side. “It’s been seven turns of the cycle, you know.”

“Seven?” I echo. Images of that skeletal garden flash through my mind. Every week I was away in my own world has been a full turn of the cycle here in Vespre. I cannot wrap my mind around it, cannot grapple with the loss of those years. Years in which my children grew up without me. Grew up and . . .up.“You’re so big,” I choke out, only just now realizing that tears course down my cheeks.

“Ah, well.” The boy—my boy—rubs a platter-sized hand along the back of his neck. “You should see Har and Dig. They’re much bigger! But I’m catching up quick.”

“Are they well? And Sis? Where are they? Are they here in the palace? Do they know about the Noswraiths? Are they—”

“Hisht!”Calx holds up a big hand in a silencing gesture. He turns from me, peers back down the hall, his small eyes narrow. “He’s coming, littleMar.Best get ready.”

I peer around Calx into the passage faintly illuminated by the glow of moonfire. The Melted Man oozes into view. His head lolls strangely, long streams of slime dripping from the gash of his mouth. He shakes his head, ungodly noises issuing from his throat.

“Calx, I can’t bind him,” I whisper, gripping my boy’s elbow.

“Oh, don’t worry, littleMar,” Calx says just as the Melted Man lifts his head and those awful, dripping eyes fasten on me. “Time to run!”

The next thing I know, I’ve been scooped up in a pair of massive arms, tossed over an enormous shoulder, and whisked away through the palace. All the breath is knocked from my lungs, and I can’t seem to draw another. I want to shout, to order Calx to put me down. I came all this way to save him, not to be born like a burden, putting him at greater risk.

But the Melted Man slavers just at our heels, his strange, angular arms crawling too fast, his weird, slug-like tail wriggling as he propels himself in short bursts. Gods, have I dropped my book? I still grip the fountain pen in one hand, but it will do me no good unless I find something to write on.

Calx turns a corner, surprisingly lithe and graceful for his bulk, and we enter a snarl of threads which crisscross every which way. They hum gently together, pulsing with an ancient form of magic far beyond my comprehension. A glow suffuses the atmosphere, shimmering and delicate. For a moment I’m convinced Calx and I will both be inextricably tangled in those threads, but he weaves his way in and out without disturbing a single one. The Melted Man, however, dives straight in, heedless, only to utter a dismal, moist sort of cry as the threads stick to his hide, pulling around him, wrapping him up.

“Wut garek, Sis!”Calx cries as we reach the far side of the thread-strewn passage.

“Korkor!”a high, piercing voice shrieks. A slim figure, all ghostly white and clothed in a gauzy slip of a gown, appears in the windowsill on our right. She swings down from a suspended cord and lands in the middle of the floor in front of us. The Noswraith lets out another wet howl. The threads binding its limbs tighten, hauling him up from the floor into the vaulted ceiling overhead. He hangs suspended, struggling, screeching, as more and more threads wrap around him until he is nothing more than an unrecognizable lump.

“Rhozah!”that bright, small voice cheers. “I got him! I got him, I got him!” She whirls on her little bare feet, pointing at Calx, “That’s three altogether, and—” She stops. Her gaze fixes on me.

“Hullo, Sis,” I say softly.

Seven years have only added to her already painful beauty. She stands before me, all gawky angles, elbows, and knees, and positively luminous. Her long silver hair hangs below her waist, held back from her face in tight braids woven with little bits of bone. Her face is fierce, fire burning in the depths of her moon-wide eyes. For a moment she stands completely frozen, and I have time enough to wonder if she, at least, hates me for what I’ve done, for the choices I’ve made. I deserve it. I deserve her hatred even as I long for her love, for her forgiveness. My dry lips move, struggling to speak. “Sis, I—”

A wordless shriek bursts from her lips. She flings herself straight into my arms. The wildness of her overwhelms me, sends me staggering back and sitting down hard on the stone floor. We crash together, her arms around my neck, and a stream of troldish words erupt in my ear. I don’t understand a single thing she says, but I hear the tears in her voice. Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her tight as I can. “It’s me. It’s me, Sis. I came back. Oh, my precious girl, I came back for you!”

Calx looms above us. His eyes shimmer with tears in the moonfire glow. He smiles, rubs the back of his neck again, and says, “You got ‘em good, Sis. But we need to keep moving. There’s more of these nasties about, and yourgubdagogis full.”

“Did you spin this, Sis?” I ask, pushing her back just enough that I can sit up and look into her exquisite little face. “Is this your work?”

Sis sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She starts to speak troldish, stops herself, and starts again. “I’m the bestgubdagoglir, Mar.The low priestess says I’m the best she ever did see!”

I clasp the girl’s cheeks and draw her to me, pressing my forehead to hers. “You are a miracle, my little Sis,” I say. “You always were.”

“Sorry,kurs Mar,” Calx rumbles above us. “Time to go. It’s not safe up here.”

I nod. Taking Sis’s hand, I scramble to my feet and let her guide me as we both follow Calx. He leads us away from the writhinggubdagog.I cast a glance back, half-afraid the furious Melted Man will break free. But profound magic vibrates from those threads. Sis’s skills have grown over the last seven years. Could she weave something strong enough to catch the likes of the Thorn Maiden? I don’t want to wait around to find out.

“Where is everyone?” I ask as Calx guides us through the passages, peering carefully around each bend before continuing. Now that I know to look for them, I spy dozens upon dozens ofgubdagogsstrung up all over the place—in windows, along the ceiling rafters, tucked away in corners. Whole passages are filled with nothing but massive tangles of thread and debris, like some giant and eclectic spider has taken up residence. Many of thegubdagogshum with captive Noswraiths. So, so many of them.

“They’re down in the low temple,” Sis explains eagerly, squeezing my hand. “We had to run away when the big breakout happened.”

“Breakout?” My heart drops to my stomach. I seek Calx’s eye, but he is busy scanning the next passage. He beckons, and Sis and I hurry after him, crossing a small courtyard under an open, starlit sky. Swirling nightmare energy draws my eye to one corner of the yard, but we make it across and enter the stone gallery across the way.

“Yes,” Sis says, much too eager for comfort. “All the nasties in the library! They broke from their books and are getting intoeverything.If not for mygubdagogs, we’d all beugdth.”

---