Page 69 of Enthralled

Then, in a single fluid thrust, I drive my blade straight through Ivor’s heart.

He gasps. Staggers back. Stares dumbly down at the weapon protruding from his chest. A flicker of glamour comes over him, sparked into being in this last moment of life. The hideous visage that escaped from the pit vanishes, replaced once more by the golden and glorious fae who once held the whole court of Aurelis in the palm of his hand. He lifts his head, tosses shining hair back from his shoulders, and gazes at me from two brilliant, hate-filled eyes. He smiles. Blood flows from his mouth, dribbles over his chin. “Hail king,” he says, choking on the words.

Then he falls to the ground. The last heir of Illithorin. Dead.

I turn to Clara. She has not moved but still kneels on the floor, holding her brother’s broken body. She looks numbly at Ivor, as though she doesn’t even realize what has happened. Slowly she lifts her gaze to meet mine. “He’s gone,” she says.

She doesn’t mean Ivor.

I drop to my knees beside her, wrap my arms around her, and pull her to me. She rests her head against my shoulder and utters a shuddering sob. “Darling,” I croon, unable to find words of comfort as she weeps. I can do nothing. I can only anchor her here in this world, with me. “Clara, my darling.”

All around us the shadows writhe with nightmare life. But they are far too afraid to draw any nearer.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me you effectivelydestroyedtwo Noswraiths? As inpermanently?”

I smile down into Mixael Silveri’s disbelieving face. He lies in his own bed, beneath a tangle of emptygubdagogthreads, bandaged, pale, unable to sit up. But alive.

The palace has been quiet ever since the gate was closed. A hush has fallen across the entire city. If I didn’t know any better, I would think word of the Eyeless Woman and the Hollow Man’s demise spread through the Nightmare Realm, and the rest of the Noswraiths fled into hiding, making themselves small and unobtrusive. Not one report of a Noswraith attack has reached the palace in three days. People are starting to come out of hiding, starting to look ahead with something like tentative hope.

Castien has been ceaseless in his labors. He’s down in the city streets more often than not, a stack of blank books in his arms, hunting out each and every wraith, both big and small. They put up little resistance against him, empowered as he is. When he’s filled every book to the brim, he returns to the library and turns them over to me to sort and shelve. I would like to be down in the streets with him, but for now allow him to persuade me to stay in the palace, to guard the library, and to oversee Mixael’s recovery.

The head librarian has not proven the easiest of patients. He knows better than anyone how understaffed we are and wants to be out on the hunt with the Prince. But he’s in no condition to do more than sit upright in his bed, sipping the occasional bowl of gruel. It’s unfair, I know; with his wife and child sent through the portal, he longs for nothing more than distraction from his loss. I offer him both company and sympathy as often as I can. When I entered his room today and saw the color just pinking his pale cheeks, I decided it was time to tell him of my recent discoveries.

“Three, actually,” I say in answer, modestly smoothing my skirts. “Dulmier Fen wasn’t exactly a powerful wraith, but it gave me the experience I needed. And I couldn’t have done it at all were it not for Vervain.”

Mixael shakes his head in baffled wonder. “You know, Miss Darlington,” he says, and I silently forgive him for forgetting my new title, “my mother always did say you would make the difference. I don’t know how she knew, but somehow she thought your arrival in Vespre was the beginning of a new era.” He grins a little sadly. In that moment he looks very like Nelle Silveri, right down to the glint in his green eyes. “She would be proud of you, I think.”

“She would be proud ofyou,” I respond and press his hand in both of mine. “And you will go on making her proud. After all you’re still head librarian of Vespre, aren’t you?”

He snorts and makes a rueful face, looking down at his bandaged body. “I suppose so. And I suppose you’ll have to start teaching me this new method of yours. Do you think it’s possible it’ll work on all of them?”

It’s difficult to imagine. How could one ever hope to find the true name at the heart of a creature like Idreloth or the Melted Man? “It will take time,” I answer after some consideration. “Time and practice.” Then I squeeze his hand and offer another smile. “But we have time now. And we have each other. Who knows what we might accomplish together?”

There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” Mixael calls, and Lawrence enters the room. Castien assigned his manservant to the head librarian’s care, a duty which he has taken on with tremendous solemnity.

“Time for your dose, sir,” Lawrence says, setting a silver tray down on the table by the bed. “We cannot heal without consistency, now can we?”

Mixael mutters but releases my hand. I slip from the room, leaving him to Lawrence’s ministrations. In the passage beyond Mixael’s apartment,gubdagogsswath the pillars and walls. They are all empty—Castien and I have already removed any wraiths caught in their tangled spells and safely ensconced them back into books. Anj and Lir sent agubdagoglirup from the city to place more protective spells all over the palace. So far none have been needed.

I sigh as I make my way to the library. After all the terror I experienced here, one would think I would hesitate to walk by myself in these silent halls. Instead I feel an overwhelming sense of homecoming tinged with deep melancholy. In my mind I still hear Sis’s manic laughter, the shouts and bellows of her brothers. Theirs is the primary haunting presence which clings to these cold, familiar passages now. While my heart is lighter knowing they are safe, knowing they are far from this drifting island . . . I ache for them. Ache for the children they were but are no longer. Ache for the years I missed. Ache for Lir, who misses them as brutally as I do, even as she is caught up with helping Anj reestablish order in the stricken city. We succeeded in our mission. But we lost much in the process. I’m not sure we will ever fully recover.

The library feels very large and full of whispers when I arrive. The Noswraiths in their grimoires chatter softly to one another until they sense my approach. Then they cut off abruptly, tucking ever more deeply into their binding spells, as though afraid to draw my attention. Perhaps I’m only imagining it—there are those who claim my imagination is far too vivid for my own good—but the sensation persists even as I ride the book lift down to the lower levels and the vaults of the Greater Noswraiths.

Castien is in the vault containing the Eight-Crowned Queen and all her many volumes. He is sealing up a final binding, and I wait in the doorway until he is quite through. He shuts the book then turns and smiles at me, as though he was aware of my presence all along. “Quiet as a lamb, our queenie,” he says, stepping down from the pedestal and exiting the chamber. He shuts the door and seals the lock. “I have to say, my Darling, you’ve truly put the spirit of fear into these monstrosities. I’ve never known nightmares to be such a load of wet blankets!”

I smile through a shudder. But my smile drops away entirely when Castien reaches into the front of his jacket and produces the bloodgem. He holds it out to me like a present, but I recoil and shake my head. “Wise choice, my love,” he says, tossing the gem once and catching it in his fist. “Some treasures are simply not worth the trouble.” He strolls to the central rail above the citadel well and looks out into the seemingly endless darkness below. “Would you like to do the honors?”

I decline, vehemently. He shrugs and quite simply flicks the gem out into the void. I watch it wink and vanish from sight, and my heart lightens with relief. So much pain was caused over that gem, all born of the ongoing, foolish desire to somehow control Noswraiths. And to what purpose? It certainly hadn’t done Ivor any good in the long run.

Castien leans his elbows on the rail, gazing out at his library, his eyes lifting to the upper levels and the dome high above. I lean with him and rest my head against his shoulder. “What happened to Umog Grush?” I ask after a little silence. “Did you find her?”

He grunts. “The low priestess gave her life to bind Idreloth. Quite a pretty binding it was too! The Noswraith hadn’t yet worked her way free when I came upon her. Yes, those troll spell-weavings are a sight to behold, and old Grush was a mistress of her craft. But her heart gave out with the effort.”

I nod. It was as I expected but . . . another loss. A tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I wipe it away absently. “I wish she’d held on a little longer. I would have liked to have told her.”

“Told her what?”

“That I did as she commanded. That I found a way to end the Noswraiths once and for all.”

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