Page 72 of Enthralled

A shifting movement draws my attention from Estrilde down to the pale figure seated at her feet. My heart stops—Sis! My sweet Sis, clad in an ornate gown, a bejeweled slave’s collar gripping her throat. The poor child winces in pain, her eyes and skin unsuited to the light of this world. Has she seen me? Does she know I’ve come for her? I want to cry out, want to raise both hands, waving for her attention.

But in that moment a chant goes up from the crowd, drowning out all other thought:“Khas! Khas! Khas!”they cry.

I lift my gaze to the minstrel’s gallery where I myself once hid, waiting for my turn to be summoned forth for the entertainment of the Lords and Ladies. The curtains are gone, the figures standing in that gallery on full display to the hungry gazes of the Dawn Court. My heart jumps to my throat. My boys! Calx, Har, and Dig. They’re all lined up on display, massive stone figures, completely out of place in this setting, their eyes downcast. But another figure is dragged out from behind them and forced to march down the stairs. Clad only in rags, her wrists and ankles heavy with shackles, Khas walks nonetheless with her head high, refusing to flinch under the glare of light. She carries baby Sor in her arms.

“Bring the little one to me!” Estrilde calls out as Khas reaches the bottom of the gallery stairs. “It’s a pretty thing—I’d like to make a pet of it.”

I watch in mounting horror as a long-fingered fae pries the baby from Khas’s arms. Danger flashes in the troll warrior’s eyes, and the fae hesitates. But when the crowd jeers and crows, urging for bloodletting, Khas relents. She won’t let her baby be caught in the middle of a fight. The fae carries Sor and offers him up to Estrilde. She smiles like an angelic dream and sets the baby on her knee, bouncing him up and down. Then she looks around at her gathered court.

“Your champion is here, my loves!” she cries. “Now, who among you would like to test his mettle against her? Whoever wins the match will win this child. How is that for a prize?”

The fae laugh, tossing back their heads and raising their wine glasses in salute. Some elbow their friends, trying to convince them to throw their fate into the hands of the gods and step onto that floor across from Khas. No one has the courage to try.

“What, no takers?” Estrilde feigns surprise, her eyes wide and blinking. “Come, my dears, the babe is sweet, is he not? Surely someone among you is willing to risk life and limb for such a delectable littleibrildian.”

Sickness churns in my gut. More than anything I want to take up the quill and book I’ve brought with me from the library and scrawl out the name of the worst Noswraith I can conjure. Idreloth perhaps. Or the Thorn Maiden. Let a true nightmare rip through this crowd and end once and for all their manic laughter. Only the knowledge that my children would be at equal risk stays my hand.

“Very well,” Estrilde sighs theatrically and beckons with one hand. “Bring forth the Skull Crusher. Let us see how our beauteous troll damsel fairs against him!”

The crowd goes wild with enthusiasm, parting to make way for the tall, hooded figure that approaches. His features are completely obscured in the folds of his long black cloak, but he carries an enormous battle ax in one hand which drags along the floor, making sparks. The Lords and Ladiesoohandahhhat his appearance. Some blanche and draw back in fear. Khas watches him with a face like solid granite. She does not bear a weapon. Will they make her fight unarmed? From the look in her eye, this won’t be the first time.

A rush of pure fury bursts through my veins. I’ve had enough of this. I don’t know if Castien is ready, but I will not wait and see Khas brutally hacked down by this Skull Crusher. Pushing the double doors wide, I step into the hall.

The effect of my entrance is immediate. Every eye in that room swivels to fix on me. All shouting and cheers abruptly cease. I can feel the questions erupting in the silence: Who is that strange little human with a book tucked under one arm? Nothing impressive, nothing worth the notice of these grand Lords and Ladies, and yet . . . all of Biroris Hall goes painfully silent. Because there’s something in the atmosphere, something they can neither understand nor explain. Some deep magic, prickling on the edge of their fae awareness. I smile. Castien did warn me my entrance might cause a moment of shock. We counted on it.

Then Sis breaks the spell, leaping to her feet, the chains around her ankles rattling.“Mar!”she shouts. Her voice seems to awaken the assembly. The fae turn to each other, murmuring, whispering. Estrilde sits up straighter in her throne, both hands gripping little Sor as she stares across the hall at me.

“What are you doing with that child?” I demand, my voice ringing against the tall gold pillars.

Estrilde’s lip curls. “Whatever I wish,” she replies. “I do what I like with my belongings.”

My long years spent as her Obligate validate every word. A chill ripples down my spine. “He does not belong to you. You will give him to his mother. Now.”

Estrilde’s face is a careful mask, but I see the fear simmering in the depths of her gaze. She cannot let her courtiers suspect how deeply my arrival has unnerved her. Lifting her head, she utters a derisive sniff. “The creature’s mother requires motivation to perform. She is a favorite of Aurelis—she cannot disappoint my court.”

The Lords and Ladies murmur their approval but cut off again abruptly when I take three bold steps into the hall. “You will release her,” I say. “Her and all the trollfolk you hold captive in your house. And”—I lift my hand, pointing straight at her—“you will get out of that seat.”

“Will I?” Estrilde settles back more comfortably and strokes Sor’s head like a lapdog. “And by what right do you make such demands, human?”

“My right as queen.”

“Queen?” Estrilde’s laugh is like liquid gold, but she cannot disguise the telltale tremble. “And who madeyouqueen of Aurelis, pray tell?”

“Her king.”

His voice fills the whole hall, ringing to the highest reaches of the ceiling, powerful and brilliant like a sun-sharpened blade piercing storm clouds. Even as he speaks, the dark figure of the Skull Crusher steps forward and throws back his hood. Disguising glamour melts away—and there he stands. Castien Lodírith, son of Lodírhal and Dasyra, heir of Aurelis. He is clad in gold, and his long hair shines like a river of night. A gasp ripples through the court. Every eye in that room is transfixed by him, my own included. He completely steals the breath from my lungs.

Lifting high the battle ax, he gives it a shake. Immediately more glamours vanish, revealing its true form: a broad troll sword. He tosses it to Khas, who catches it easily in her shackled hands. Then, unarmed, he turns to face Estrilde. All around the room, weapons are trained upon him. Guards stand at attention, some hovering in midair, suspended on great golden wings, their lances poised and ready to be hurled. None of them dares make a move, however. They all recognize the power brimming inside him, the might of Aurelis’s king come home to reclaim his kingdom.

Estrilde stands upright, still clutching little Sor in her hands. “Give the baby to his mother, Estrilde!” I command, my voice echoing in the stricken stillness. Her eyes still fastened on Castien, Estrilde plunks Sor into Sis’s arms. Sis immediately leaps from the dais and races to Khas’s side. Khas urges the girl to stand behind her and remains in battle stance, her sword upraised. But I can already see that this battle is over. It was over before it began.

Castien holds Estrilde’s gaze. The air between them bristles with tension, with the aura of his majesty and the feebleness of her resistance. As I watch, her glamours melt away. First her horns vanish in little ribbons of vapor, then her great height shrinks, her tall, strong form becoming hunched and pathetic. All the golden light which shone from inside her fades, leaving her gray and shrunken. She simply cannot bear to exist in the presence of her king.

“Kneel,” Castien says.

At his word every one of the Lords and Ladies in that hall drop to their knees. The guards toss aside their weapons and throw themselves down, heads bent, backs bowed, genuflecting before their master. Estrilde resists for a breath longer than the rest. Even now she seeks to hold onto that which she had believed to be in her grasp—the kingdom that was never meant to be hers.

Castien takes a single step forward. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s enough. Estrilde falls to her hands and knees, the last of her glamours dropping away entirely. “It’s not my fault!” she cries, her voice hollow in that huge, captivated space. “It was Ivor, it was always Ivor. He enthralled me! He made promises I couldn’t resist. It’s the human blood in him, beguiling me with human lies—”

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