Page 59 of Enthralled

He drops to his hands, to his face. His body contorts, goes still. Then he lifts his head, and two black, slithering things emerge from his eye sockets, bursting right through his spectacle lenses. They wave like antenna from his head. His body begins to jerk, pulled upright as though propelled by some outside force. He lurches to his feet, and for a moment seems to regard me with those antenna eyes.

Then he turns to the children.

Before he can take a step, Mixael is there, a spell-sword in both hands. In a flash of white light, he cuts the heads off those squirming back writhers. They drop to the ground, and Mixael grinds them under his boots before, in a single, smooth arc, he strikes Andreas in the head with the hilt of his weapon. Andreas topples backwards, landing face up to the starlit sky.

For a moment the Nightmare Realm retreats. The librarian lies there on the stones, no writhing wraiths protruding from his eyes. He looks almost peaceful, save that his spectacles are shattered. “Andreas?” Mixael cries and kneels over his friend. He’s weeping, tears rolling down his cheeks. But we don’t have time for mourning.

“Mixael, we must go.” I grab his arm and pull with all my might.

“It was his,” Mixael chokes and turns to look up at me through swimming eyes. “Shusolor,the Mind Worm—it was his wraith.” He bows over Andreas again, his teeth clenched, struggling to hold back a sob. “They always get their makers in the end.”

Cold washes over me. I’ve always known Andreas was a Noswraith creator. Like me. Like most of the librarians brought to serve in Vespre, punished with lifelong exile for the crime of bringing such horrors into being. But Andreas had always seemed so mild, so gentle. Part of me had never believed him truly capable of such sorcery. I look down into his empty face, into those glassy, staring eyes. Is he at peace now? Will any of us ever be?

Khas steps in beside her husband. Little Sor, no longer asleep, lets out a pathetic wail from his pouch. This seems to galvanize Mixael. He lets his wife help him to his feet then puts his shoulders back. “I’ve got this, love,” he says, looking into her silvery eyes. “Come on. It’s not much farther now.” He turns to me and says, “Quills up, librarian. I’ll guard our retreat.”

I offer a salute with Dasyra’s quill then hasten to the head of the line where Lir waits with the children. Our company is drastically reduced since leaving the temple. Several of the families peeled away into side streets, unwilling to remain with such a large group. I don’t blame them, but I also know they cannot survive for long on their own out there. Now there are scarcely six families left along with the orphan children. Will they be the last of the trollfolk? Exiled from their own world, doomed to wander Eledria in search of a haven to call home? Is this the end of the mighty people of Vespre?

“Keep close behind me,” I tell Lir. Anj stands beside her, helpless against the Noswraiths. He’s got a child in each arm, another on his back, and this alone warms my heart to him for the first time. I cast him a flashing glance before fixing my attention back on Lir. “Last push,” I say. “Get ready to move.”

Then I stride forward up the street, writing a flaming sword into existence. It illuminates our way, a warning to all Noswraiths. The nightmares must sense something in me now, some determination, some passion. They cringe away from that light and retreat trembling into the shadows. I glimpse flashes of glowing eyes, of slavering jaws, of long, needle-sharp fingers. But they skuttle back into the alleys and buildings, hissing, spitting, cooing, weeping. None dare approach.

We move as fast as the smallest child on foot can run. It seems like forever, but suddenly we reach the courtyard of the palace. There are so many Noswraiths here, but we’ve come this far, I’m not about to back down. Without hesitation I stride forward, hewing left and right with my sword, knowing full well that each shadow I cut down will reform and attack again soon if not properly bound. It doesn’t matter. I just need to get these survivors through to the library. That’s all.

Lir, Sis, and the remaining priestesses spin their smallgubdagogs. I hear screams behind me and know people are being cut down, taken. I forge onward, my sword bursting with radiance as I plunge it into the leering mouth of a shadowy wraith. There was a time when even one of these nightmares would have been enough to send me cowering in terror. No longer, not after everything I’ve been through. They are but obstacles between me and my goal. I will not let them stand in my way.

We reach the palace steps. I dare to cast a glance back, to see who is still with me. The children are here, shielded by Anj, Calx, Dig, and Har, all of whom are useless against Noswraiths. A handful of the parents and seven priestesses remain, all withgubdagogsstrung from their nimble fingers. Sis and Lir stand on either flank, Sis so small and ferocious as she faces the nightmares. Khas is at the vanguard, one hand shielding her baby’s face as though to spare him from encroaching terrors. It’s such a useless and yet maternal gesture, it breaks my heart.

Mixael is behind us, battling a creeping foe. For a flash, I see him in truth, standing there with a book and quill, scribbling down spells as fast as his mind can conjure them, pouring magic into the ether as he creates realities with words. He is a master of his craft indeed.

I look down at my own book. It’s stuffed—every page scrawled over in tight, messy script, only just enough to temporarily contain the ravening wraiths. Hurling it aside, I reach for the last volume in my satchel even as I turn to mount the palace steps.

A sharp sting at my cheek. I put up a hand, feel the warmth of blood. My eyes dart to the side in time to see a thorny cane ripple across stone. I just have time to register what I see, to grasp what it means, before a voice coos in my ear:“Red blooms the rose in my heart tonight, fair as the dawn, new as the spring.”

The next moment a whirling, churning mass of thorns and briars appears at the top of the steps, blocking the palace doors. In the center of that churning stands a woman made of thorns—a glorious, cruel creature. She smiles, and red roses burst into bloom all around her.

I stagger back a step, even as thorns lash around my ankle and yank me off balance. Dasyra’s quill drops from my fingers. I scream, scrabble to retrieve it, but the Thorn Maiden yanks me up from the ground and hangs me suspended, upside down. She draws me toward her monstrous center. The stench of rotten roses fills my nostrils, and I stare into a face made of petals and thorns. Her jaw opens wide, thorn teeth gaping, ready to swallow me whole.

Then she gasps, chokes. A cord of gold wraps around her neck, yanking her off balance. She turns, looks, and sees more such cords wrapping around her innumerable limbs. They burn bright, and her canes begin to smolder. The Thorn Maiden screams as large chunks of her being break off and fall charred to the ground. The limb holding me breaks. I fall in a heap on the palace stairs. Luckily I don’t break my neck but manage to scramble upright and stare through the mass of brambles and glowing cords. The Thorn Maiden shrieks and writhes, but beyond her . . . beyond her . . .

“Castien!” I cry.

He’s there, standing in the hall behind the Noswraith. His dark hair streams behind him like storm clouds, and his purple robes billow as though in a high gale. His head is thrown back, the light of his kingly glory ablaze in his vivid eyes. He holds tight to a multi-tailed whip, a spell of exquisite craftsmanship. He is a mage beyond compare, a conduit of tremendous magic drawn straight from thequinsatra,all funneled through ink and pen and page in a terrible flood of power. Even a nightmare as ferocious as the Thorn Maiden must tremble before him.

I’ve never seen him more beautiful than he is in this very moment.

With a final shriek, the Thorn Maiden disintegrates, vanishing from this reality. The Nightmare Realm retreats, and Castien turns to me, his spell-whips gone. Instead he holds a book across his arm and writes the last few words of his binding with a flourish of his quill. Then, snapping the cover shut, he flashes me a most devastating grin.

“Welcome home, Darling. I missed you. Had a busy day of it then?”

I cannot find words. It doesn’t matter. He swiftly descends the stairs to me, pulls me to my feet and presses me to his heart. I rest there a moment and listen to thethrumof his pulse. Though he looks so calm, cool, and collected, that frantic heartbeat reveals a great deal. I close my eyes, allowing myself to revel in his closeness for the space of three breaths and no more.

Then pushing back, I turn and look down at our little party, clustered at the base of the stairs. One of the priestesses lies dead. Another is wounded, supported by Dig, who is himself still recovering from his Noswraith encounter. Is she the pretty priestess he risked life and limb to protect earlier? I hope so.

“So few,” Castien murmurs, taking in the assembly. Devastation underscores each word, but when I look up at him, his face is bright and determined. “Come along,” he says. “We’ve got to get them through. Fetch your quill, my Darling, and hurry!”

The way through the haunted palace is worse than the city. Noswraiths crawl out from every crevice, reach from every shadow, hungry and unable to resist the lure of so many vulnerable victims. But Castien is with us now. Quick and sure, he dashes off spells with an ease I scarcely comprehend. In all my time serving in Vespre library, he suffered under the blood-curse, which prevented him from using his power to its full extent. Now, with the curse broken, and our proximity having restored him to full strength, he is a wonder to behold.

He leads the way, and I guard the middle, while Mixael continues to bring up the rear. Our party has dwindled so much, it’s easier to manage, but we also have fewergubdagoglirsto aid us. Dig supports his wounded priestess, whose eyes are wide and staring, her expression fixed with horror. I don’t know if she will survive, but I can’t bear to tell Dig to leave her. Sis rides on Calx’s shoulders, exhausted but still spinninggubdagogsas fast as her fingers can fly.

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