Page 57 of Enthralled

I don’t feel well. Not at all. Now that the immediate danger has relented for the moment, I’m suddenly exhausted, nauseated, overwrought, and on the verge of full-blown panic. But there’s no time for any of that. “I’m all right, Lir,” I say, though my hands shake as I grip her forearms. Then, because I don’t know what else to say, I simply blurt, “I’ve seen the Prince.”

“The Prince?” Lir gasps. “He’s here? In Vespre?”

In a mad tumble of words, I tell her about the gate in the library which the Prince even now guards, ready to open. When I start to mention Ivor and Oscar, however, my throat closes up. I can’t bear to admit what my brother has done. Besides, Ivor isn’t our greatest threat. He’s nothing compared to the massive host of Noswraiths between us and the library, all of whom will be immediately attracted by a mass exodus from the temple.

“I tried to get Vervain,” I tell her, my voice threatening to break. “She could have helped us, but . . . but . . .”

Lir nods her understanding. “You did what you could, Mistress,” she says gently. “Vervain was a lost soul in any case.”

Lost soul . . .Her words echo inside my head. I close my eyes, and for a moment I’m standing back in that cold stone hall. I see Vervain as she kneels in the center of a nightmare storm, holding a small child in her arms. I see as well the image of George Godswin, standing in the fen, surrounded by phantoms. Lost souls. Like me. Like Oscar. Like all those who, in their desperation, turned to the darkness of our own creation for relief.

But were they truly lost in the end?

Lir is still talking. I drag my attention back to the present, and her words clarify in my ears. “Anj will not be easy to convince,” she says. “He wants to believe we can hold out here until the Noswraiths are all rebound.”

I shake my head firmly. “Once the Greater Noswraiths realize we’re here, they’ll break through thegubdagogbarrier without a thought. We’ve got to get everyone up to the library, as many as we can.”

Lir nods, her lovely face scored with hard lines. “Yes,” she says. Then she firms her jaw. “The gods themselves sent you to us, Mistress. They sent you to show us the way.” She smiles, a fierce, determined expression. “We will save our children.”

I nod, even as tears brim in my eyes. “Yes,” I whisper. “We will get them out.”

Lir was right—Anj is not easy to convince.

The two of them argue vehemently in troldish, right there in the courtyard under the wide, terrified eyes of the refugee families surrounding them. I watch, helpless and unable to follow any of the dialogue being exchanged. I can only study their faces, try to read their expressions. In Anj, I see desperation, in Lir, conviction. Both terrible forces, battering each other with rough, growling words.

I look around at the families. Most of them are parents, some with very small children held in their mother’s arms. They are so vulnerable, so helpless against the forces of darkness assailing them. Many of them won’t survive a journey from the temple to the palace . . . but none will survive if we don’t at least make the attempt. And they know it. I see the truth dawning in their hard, stone faces.

Anj works up into a frenzy, raising his fists over his head. Sudden movement at the temple entrance interrupts whatever he’s about to say, however. All heads turn, all eyes fix on that cavern opening as the two guards part, and a procession of stone-hided priestesses pour from the darkness within. They carry complicatedgubdagogsin their hands and weargubdagognecklaces across their broad bosoms. They keep their eyes downcast but form two neat rows, a path between them. I hold my breath, knowing who is about to emerge.

Umog Grush appears. She is so vast, not only in her size but in her sheer presence. Lichen clings to her shoulders, a strange natural mantel that somehow only lends greater majesty to her terrifying form. She rolls out from the shadows, hunched over her walking stick and yet somehow more regal in bearing than any of the Lords and Ladies of Eledria I’ve ever seen. She proceeds between her loyal priestesses and across the courtyard until she stands directly in front of Anj. She pins him with a cold stare.

“Kaurga-hor, gruaka-hor,” she growls.

Anj draws a sharp breath through flared nostrils and takes a step back. The low priestess addresses herself to Lir next, speaking another series of rumbling words that mean nothing to my ear. Lir drops to her knees, her head bowed as she responds. To my great surprise, Umog Grush places her hand on Lir’s head in what looks like a sort of benediction. Something solemn is taking place here. Whatever comes next will depend on the low priestess’s words.

Umog Grush lifts her heavy head, casting her gaze about the courtyard. At her people, gathered here for shelter from the storm. Shelter she cannot provide. Not for long.

Her small eyes narrow.“Drag!”she barks.

Lir springs to her feet. “We leave for the palace at once,” she declares, before turning to Anj. She speaks a few words to him, still in troldish, but in a different tone than their argument. He shakes his head, distraught. She reaches out, touches his arm, but he recoils from her and turns away, barking orders.

The courtyard erupts into action. Families gather themselves, putting out their small fires, piling their belongings on their backs. There are some grumbles, questions, and protests, but on the whole, the trolls work in silence. They trust Anj, their leader; but when Anj glances my way, I see nothing but deep distrust simmering in his gaze. Can I blame him? So far I’ve not done anything to merit better. I can only hope that, in the next few hours, I’ll be able to prove myself to him and all these vulnerable souls.

All is chaotic to my eye, though Lir and Anj work to bring some form of order to the chaos. Calx and Har emerge from the temple, Dig slung between them. Sis dances at their heels, eager as ever, weaving agubdagogwith her nimble fingers. The priestesses of the Deeper Dark form protective lines on either sides of the vulnerable families, theirgubdagogshumming with awakened magic.

A shock of red hair catches my eye. I turn to see Mixael and Khas in heated debate. She looks furious, but he reaches up, grabs the back of her head, and draws her forehead down to his. He closes his eyes, and she closes hers. They stand like that for a moment, breathing each other’s air. Little Sor sleeps in the front pack of his mother’s breastplate, his head flopped to one side, his fat cheek smooshed.

“Miss?”

I turn to find Andreas approaching me, a stack of books in his arms. He offers them to me, and I realize they are empty spellbooks. I accept them, grateful to refill my satchel. “Do you have a pen?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you, Mister Cornil,” I say and hold up Dasyra’s quill.

He starts to turn away but pauses and looks back. “It’s good you came, Miss,” he says, blinking from behind his spectacles. “Things were a bit . . . tight in your absence. I hope you can make the difference.”

Coming from Andreas, it’s an impressive monologue. I smile softly. “I hope so too.”

He nods and wanders off in that vague way of his. I look down at my satchel full of empty books waiting to be filled with binding spells. If I can write them fast enough, that is. The Noswraiths will be drawn to this great crowd. The moment we’re beyond thegubdagogbarrier, they’ll—

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