Page 47 of Enthralled

“Not again,” she responds firmly. “Never again.” I nod and kiss her temple. Then I turn her to face me. “Castien,” she says. Her eyes shine fearfully in the moonfire light. “Castien, there’s only Mixael and Andreas left. Thegubdagoglirswill do what they can, of course, but—”

“There is another.”

She gazes up at me blankly. Then understanding comes over her in a flash. “Vervain!”

“Unless I am much mistaken, she’s still in her tower cell,” I say. “She is a strong magic-wielder. She can help you lead the others back here. If you can get to her. If she is still alive.”

Clara grips my forearms, her fingers tense. “I’m not sure I can reach her. The tower . . . it’s on the opposite side of the palace. There are Noswraiths around every corner, and the Hollow Man is still out there.”

She’s right of course. It’s a deadly game we play. But we need every player to our advantage if we’re going to have any hope of success. “I have an idea,” I say. Gently pulling free of her grasp, I step to the window, lift the latch, and push it open. Leaning out into the cold air, I whistle softly. Movement stirs among the rooftops of the lower palace. The unsuspecting might think it another Noswraith, attracted by my call. But it’s not a nightmare which takes to the air on broad, white wings. It’s a dream.

My wyvern circles in the air before us, every line of its body a poem brought to life. Clara gasps. The next moment she steps to my side, gazing out at the exquisite being. It draws in close to the window and catches hold of the outer wall with its hind legs, balancing there, its delicate head level with the sill. It ruffles its feathers in greeting, large eyes blinking. Clara reaches out to scratch the beast under the chin. “Is this how you made it to Vespre so swiftly after I called your name?”

“Yes.” I step back from the window to my desk and open one of the lower drawers. “We have been searching far and wide across the Hinter Sea for the better part of these last seven cycles. That fellow has been my constant and often only companion all the while.”

My hands find a little box buried beneath sheets of loose paper. Withdrawing it, I lift the lid. There on a bed of silk rests a crimson quill. A mage’s quill—my mother’s. Carefully, reverently, I pull it from the box and hold it up to the moonfire light. How vividly I remember when Clara first arrived in Vespre Library, carrying this quill with her. Fury filled me when I saw her with it. After all, her own written creation had been the cause of my mother’s death. Back then I could not have imagined where our story would lead. I certainly could not have imagined doing what I do now.

“Here,” I say, holding the quill out to Clara. She gapes, mouth open, eyes round. “You must be armed for battle, my valiant librarian.”

She doesn’t even breathe. She simply stands there, motionless, staring at the quill held so lightly in my fingers. Slowly she lifts her gaze to mine. “I can’t, Castien.”

“Of course you can, my Darling. Prove your mettle here and now. Rescue Vervain. Bring the children up from the low temple.” I take a step toward her, grasp her hand, and press the quill into her fingers. “Let us undo what we can of the evil we brought into this city.”

To my relief, she doesn’t fight me but tucks the quill into her satchel. I give her the key to Vervain’s cell as well, then take her trembling hand and guide her to the window. Her breath quickens, and her fingers tremble in mine. “You must take care,” I urge. “There are airborne Noswraiths aplenty out there. But my friend here is swift and will carry you safely across the palace.”

Clara swallows hard then turns those big eyes of hers up to me once more. “How can I bear to leave you behind? I only just found you.”

“I know.” I cup her face gently, pressing my forehead to hers. If only there was some other way. If only I might go in her stead, leave her here to guard the gate. But the risk is too great, and we both know it. “We will see each other again. I swear it.”

Her lips find mine in a kiss so sweet, so hungry. I respond in kind, eager for her touch, for that connection, eager for everything she is. She tastes of tears and delirious hope, wild and intoxicating. I could feast upon such kisses for a lifetime and never crave any other.

But it ends all too soon. She pulls away, pinching her swollen lips between her teeth. Without a word she turns to the window, climbs onto the sill, and swings out onto the wyvern’s neck. The dream-beast holds still, balancing carefully until she is settled in place. Her face is pale and tense, her satchel slung across her breast and resting against her hip. She looks at me over a shoulder of white feathers.

“Remember, Darling,” I urge her, “you are more powerful than you know.”

She nods. Then she buries her face in the soft feathers of the wyvern’s neck just as it pushes off from the tower and launches into the sky.

Noswraiths swarm the palace below. From my perch astride the wyvern, I see them climbing the walls and towers, lurching along open parapets, hanging out of windows. Leering, hideous shapes, unnatural and brimming with malice. I don’t spy any sign of the Greater Noswraiths just now, however. They seem to have gone dormant for the time being. But they’re out there. I know it.

The wyvern soars over the palace rooftops and darts among towers, using them as shelter. I wish it would simply make a sprint for it, but this is probably safer. Best not to attract attention. If only I could take out my book and quill and be prepared to write in case of attack, but it’s all I can do to grip handfuls of feathers, bow over the white beast’s long neck, and pray this flight will be over soon. More than anything I long for Castien. To have found him again and reclaimed him is a blessing far beyond anything I dared pray for. It took every bit of will I possessed to leave him again, and even now I must force myself not to turn the wyvern around and fly with all speed back to his study window.

Movement in the tail of my eye draws my attention. I turn sharply and catch my breath. A dark cloud rises from one of the towers, whorling wings carving patterns against the star-strewn sky. Terror surges in my heart. “Frights!” I hiss. I’ve seen them before. Small nightmares, but deadly, they’ll strip the living flesh from your bones while you scream. Have they spotted us? For the space of three breaths, I dare to hope otherwise.

Then the swarm banks in the air and rushes our way.

Choking on a cry, I wrench my satchel open and grab one-handed for my book. I’ve barely pulled it out before the cloud of churning malevolence is upon us. The wyvern utters a fluting cry and darts forward. I latch hold of shoulder feathers again, and the book drops away, fluttering uselessly into darkness below.

The next moment frights surround us, tiny, bat-sized bodies like hunched little men with elongated limbs and lantern eyes. Viper fangs gnash ravenously at the air. Several bury those fangs into the wyvern’s neck, its head, its wings. I let go with one hand, try to brush them away, but the wyvern banks, and I nearly fall. Shedding frights, my mount wheels through the air. I can do nothing but cling to its back, unable even to breathe.

With a sudden powerful propulsion, the wyvern breaks free of the swarm. I have a dizzying view of a balcony and an open doorway before me, and some part of my brain comprehends the wyvern’s intention. It puts on speed, creating distance between us and the frights, then pulls up sharply in midair and hovers over that balcony. I have mere moments to act.

Releasing my hold, I slip from the dream-beast’s back and fall ten feet onto hard stone. The landing knocks the wind from my lungs, but I spring up, adrenaline burning in my veins, and race for the open door. I don’t have time to worry if more nightmares wait in the shadows on the other side; the frights are a much too present danger. I dart into the shelter of the building, then turn and look back, lips parted to call for the wyvern. But the beast banks again and leads the frights away. It speeds across the sky, a streak of daydream beauty in the midst of nightmare darkness, a shining, angelic being, silhouetted against that endless backdrop of stars.

The frights close in. Shrieking, tearing. Shredding, devouring. I stuff my knuckles into my mouth and choke back a cry. There’s nothing I can do. I’m too far away and too late. I can only watch as little bits of parchment paper float down from the devouring cloud of claws, teeth, and wings. They flit in the air like delicate snowflakes and waft away on the breeze.

The swarm seems to turn in search of their next victim. They’ll be upon me in a moment. I step inside, haul on the heavy door, and shut it fast. Leaning my back against it, I cover my face with my hands. My heart throbs as though the fright’s savage fangs had bitten into it. That dream, that beautiful dream! Castien’s dream, the product of his beautiful mind . . . torn to shreds in an instant.

Despair wells in my chest. I’m alone. Trapped in this Noswraith-infested palace. Though I reach into my satchel and wrap my fingers around Dasyra’s quill, what good will it do me? I couldn’t save the wyvern. Who’s to say I can save anyone else?

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