Page 54 of Enthralled

The author himself must have died a long time go, whoever he is. The cut of his dressing gown looks like something my great-grandfather would have worn. Yet here, within the bounds of his own creation, he lives on, forever tormented, trapped in the story born from the deepest wounds of his heart.

“It’s time for you to rest.” I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say. Perhaps there is no right thing. But I remember that glimpse of Vervain embracing the child. I remember how Vervain named herself when she looked at the Hungry Mother. For that’s what Noswraiths are in the end—pieces of their creators’ souls. The miracle of life belongs to the gods. Humans cannot make life from nothing as gods can. They can only use what the gods have given them—their own lives, their own spirits, their own divinely-inspired passion, all fallen, twisted by the sins of life and the shocks of pain and suffering.

Tears stream down my face, hot against my cold skin. “You must forgive yourself,” I say, nearly choking on the words. “You must forgive and let them go.”

“Never!” The man turns to me, his eyes fierce, his expression more frightening in that moment than any ghost or ghoul. “I can never forgive myself for the unpardonable sin of surviving.”

I shake my head. “You’ve punished yourself far too long, and in the process, you punish them too.” I sweep a hand, indicating all the sorry phantoms. “If you cannot show yourself compassion, then do it for them.” He tries to pull his hand free of my grasp, but I refuse to be shaken off. “They’re trapped here. All of them. With you. They cannot be at peace until you let them go.”

To my shock, tears course down his face. As they fall, they seem to melt away beard and wrinkles and aged-lined skin. The big, barrel-chested, swollen man shrinks into a younger, fitter self. He doesn’t look like the young captain of the story, though he’s not unlike him either. He sports the same sparce mustache, the same fine uniform, almost brand new, the silver buttons only a little tarnished. He looks at me through his tears, desperate and sad, but also painfully hopeful. I clasp his hand in both of mine, holding onto him like a lifeline. “Tell me your name.”

“Godswin,” the youth says, and breathes out a shuddering sigh. “George Godswin.”

The name hits me like a thunderclap. No wonder I felt that I knew him. How many hours did Oscar and I spend together, curled up before the fire, reading G.H. Godswin’sAdventure Stories for Boys?Thrilling tales, which I certainly enjoyed as much as any boy, reading aloud all the scariest parts with dramatic gusto that made my little brother hide his head under his hands. Though hardly a figure of literary renown, G.H. Godswin left his mark on the world. His flowery prose, ridiculous plots, and on-the-nose moralizing never won him much acclaim.

But this story—a ghost story, tucked away in some magazine and forgotten—it had carried the truth in his heart. Truth enough that those who read it responded to it, and the joint power of human imagination brought Dulmier Fen to life.

Before he was G.H. Godswin, he was just George: a young officer ready and eager to do his duty, to serve his country, to win himself a little honor. One of only three survivors of the Battle of Brass Hill.

“I see you, George Godswin,” I say, my voice a mere breath. I’m so out of my depth, so unprepared, so inadequate. But I’m all he has, here in this space of reality carved into being by his pain. “I see you and I . . . I absolve you.”

When I move toward him, the sucking mud relents unexpectedly. I find I can draw nearer to him, as have all the ghosts. They press in on every side and, one by one, lay their hands on his shoulders. Those who cannot reach rest their hands on each other’s shoulders. Some stand at my back, reaching over me. I feel the pressure of them, the weight of their pain, their loneliness, insubstantial though they are.

I gaze up into George’s young, horror-wracked face. Leaning forward I lift onto my toes and plant a kiss, ever so soft and gentle, on his brow. “Be at peace, soldier,” I whisper, my eyes closed, my lips a breath away from his skin. “You and all the ghosts you bear.”

He sighs. When his eyes open, I see for a moment, not George, but the young captain once more. He looks down at his gut, at his death wound. Only there is no wound anymore, only a gash in his coat and a visible, puckered scar across his abdomen. No more bleeding. No more pain. His head shoots up, and he catches my gaze, his face lighting up with a smile. “Amelia!” he cries.

A burst of white light erupts in my face. I cry out, my hands grasping. Despite everything, I try to hold on—to him, to George, to all the phantoms and the fen. But they slip away through my fingers, one after the other, lost in that radiance. In the end I’m left standing alone, my eyes too dazzled at first to see anything. All I know is that I’m cold, but I’m no longer wet. Am I not in the fen? I turn slowly in place as my vision adjusts to the gloom. There’s just enough starlight to illuminate the stone entrance hall of the palace. No fen, no stagnant pools stretching on for endless miles. Just tall walls and the long staircase before me. Even the shadows are quiet, no sign of the Nightmare Realm churning in their depths.

The Eight-Crowned Queen has not pursued me. Yet.

I dash tears from my cheeks with the heel of my hand. I’m still shaking, overcome by everything I just experienced. Was that . . . was that the end of a Noswraith? Is DulmierFen no more, released from the spell of its creation? Have I actually found a way to stop these horrors once and for all?

There’s no time to dwell on any of this. I must go. I must return to the temple, bring the children up, send them through the gate. Castien is waiting, and I won’t let him down. Gathering my skirts, I turn and dart for the open palace door. I’m within three paces of it when a figure steps into view, silhouetted in the opening. I stop. My heart lurches to my throat in a surge of pain and fear. But this is no Noswraith who blocks my path.

“Oscar!” I gasp.

“What are you doing here, Clara?”

I take in the sight of him, standing before me like a ghost stepped straight from my own past. He holds a moonfire lantern in one hand, and its soft light illuminates one side of his face. That side is so innocent and boyish, it could break my heart. The other side is harsh beneath deep shadows. The green light ofrothiliomwhirls in the centers of his pupils, but even that drug-haze cannot hide the fear shining in their depths.

I draw a steadying breath. If he’s afraid, good. I can use that. And I cannot let him know how frightened I am. “I think the better question is what areyoudoing here?” I answer coldly. “You don’t belong in Vespre. You don’t belong in this world.”

He blinks. For a moment I see that vulnerable child I knew, not the man he has become. But when his eyelids rise, his expression flashes defiantly. “I will go anywhere with Ivor,” he says. “Into any danger, into the deepest of the nine hells. I love him.”

Summoning all my courage, I take a step and hold out one hand. “Dearest,” I say. “Dearest, please, believe me. I know this man. I know what he’s done. You don’t know everything he’s capable of. He’s enthralled you, and—”

“No, Clara.” My brother’s voice snaps like a whip, and I can’t help recoiling several paces. “For the first time, I know what true love is. Not the awful, pathetic, nasty thing called love our family shared. Ivor has liberated me. Ivor has let me become my true self, and no one—no one, Clara, not even you—will stop me from being my true self. Never again.”

His words echo hollowly inside my chest, in that carved-out space where once I felt only warmth and love for him. How have we come to this? How could a brother and sister, so devoted, so dependent on one another for happiness, end up at such desperate odds? Part of me still doesn’t want to believe it. Part of me still wants to fight, even in the face of each terrible revelation. “Was this your plan all along then?” I sweep an arm as though I might encompass the whole city in a single gesture. “To come to Vespre and unleash nightmares on the citizens?”

“What?” Oscar blinks and shakes his head. “No, we don’t care about any of that. Ivor has a plan. He is the High King of the fae—did you know that? He is Illithorin’s heir. But to claim his rights, he will need to claim all four of the Eledrian crowns in one fell swoop.” He takes an eager step toward me, overwhelmed by passion for his subject. The hand holding the lantern shakes, and the pale glow wavers. “Fae cannot stand against these nightmare monsters. Ivor explained it all to me. He took control of the Eight-Crowned Queen using the bloodgem. She is a great weapon, greater than anything the fae are prepared to face. He had a plan that involved you and me and Princess Estrilde too, of course. With the Eight-Crowned Queen and the Noswraiths you and I wield, he could take all Eledria before they even knew the attack had begun. It was all coming together . . . until you betrayed him.”

Dismay churns like heated stones in my gut. The boy is deluded and determined to cling to his delusion. But the truth is there, behind the manic drug-light in his eyes. He already knows the monster he created is far beyond his or anyone’s ability to control.

“Oscar,” I say, “you must believe me, I never betrayed Ivor.”

His teeth flash in the lantern glow. “It was your fault he was thrown into that pit! It was your fault he is what he is now!”

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