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At last I look a little higher. Up into a pair of vivid, violet eyes. A shock of fear lances through me. Or . . . not fear exactly. Something else. Something I cannot name. A sort of dreadful, stomach-sinking familiarity. But that can’t be right. Because I’ve never seen this man. I’d remember if I had; his is not a face one would forget easily.
No, just a quick up-and-down inspection, before his eyes fasten on mine once more. “You’re shorter than I remembered,” he says.
I jerk my head up, staring at the stranger before me. “But . . . but you’re the—” “Prince Castien!” a ringing, golden voice cuts me off. “Do my eyes deceive me or is that really you?”
I’ve learned over the years that a smile is a much more effective mask than a non-expression. Every non-expression is ultimately a blank canvas inviting unwanted feelings to flash into momentary visibility. But if you’re wearing a smile, it’s easier to hide that which you would prefer to remain secret.
But her best known work is a ballad of two mortal lovers who are separated by various cruel twists of fate and ultimately end up killing each other in a tragic—if somewhat idiotic—misunderstanding. Communication is not their strong suit. But the story should be suitably romantic for my intended audience.
Romeo & Juliet?
He draws a slow breath through his nostrils and tilts his head back. Then, without looking at me: “You look very nice this evening.” “What?” I blink. “Did you . . . Do you mean . . . ?” He waves a vague hand, still without actually looking. “The color. It suits you.”
“That one’s powers have been restricted for the safety of all Eledria,” the king continues. “By rights, she should have been done to death years ago.”
“Write it back into the pages,” he repeats. “The Noswraith. It needs to be bound again. So write it back into the pages.”
“In the sacred name of the Great Goddess Anaerin, and the names of her three brothers and three sisters, who sit enthroned above, I declare before all of you—Ivor Illithor shall be my heir, sovereign king over all Aurelis.”
Because this time I see him, not in Bioris Hall, receiving the fawning adulation of Aurelis Court. No, indeed. Instead he stands in the library. Gazing down at her. With that look his eye. A look of confidence, of triumph. Of ownership. My hand clenches into a fist.
Estrilde saw to that, locking down her memories along with her powers. Perhaps it’s just as well. Just as well that she’s not thought of me these five long, dreadful years. Not as I’ve thought of her. Every night. Every waking hour.
He’s looking at me with an expression of unmasked loathing. “You,” he snarls. I open my mouth again, try to speak. No words will come. The Prince’s teeth flash in a grimace. He lifts one foot, takes a step toward me. And to my utmost surprise, his legs buckle, his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses. Into my arms.
He smiles a slow, unhurried sort of smile. But the bitterness never leaves his eyes. “Because I needed to show them all—my father, Estrilde, even that pasty-faced Lord Ivor—that you don’t belong here. You belong in Vespre. With me. Where you can be of great service to all Eledria.”
“I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done, Clara Darling,” he whispers. “I’ll make you pay tenfold for the evil you’ve wrought upon the worlds.”
“And we’ll stick to the upper five floors today,” Nelle says as we descend. “I’ll let the Prince take you below when he’s ready. That’s a place you’re better off seeing for the first time with him at your side.”
“There ain’t much true Miphates magic left nowadays, I’m told, but way back when, they was a force to be reckoned with. Even the fae feared them. The Miphates discovered more about Noswraiths than any magicians who’d gone before.” She shivers. “I ain’t never had much luck with Miphates. Save one, that is.”
Deciding not to borrow trouble from the future when the present is plenty complicated as it is, I face the Prince again.
The Prince considers this. Then, accepting my assessment, continues. “We will begin training at once. Tomorrow morning. You will work under my tutelage from six bells until twelve. From that point on, Clara Darling, I require that you keep out of my way as much as is humanly possible.” Since he speaks this last part with the same easy authority he’s used for the whole of our conversation, I almost miss the sting in his words. When I do notice, however, it’s a sharp, painful sensation that leaves an afterburn.
I come to one particular desk set a little apart from the others. Something about it makes me pause and look again. At first I’m not sure what it is that compels me. Then I notice the name plaque set front and center: Soran Silveri.
What you read is not a traditional spell the way you’ve been brought up to think of spells. The magic lies in the writer’s ability to make his prose implant in his reader’s brain. There it becomes something real. It’s that interaction of the two—writer and reader—that gives the magic its opportunity to rise. Do you follow me?”
“The Thorn Maiden,” I whisper. As though in response to her name, something shivers and whispers on the far side of the vault door. “Yes,” the Prince says. “Not her true name, of course; merely her title, rather like your Melted Man. She’s a big one. Not the biggest of our collection, but quite a nasty nightmare in her own right. She was originally created by Soran Silveri, one of the most powerful Miphates ever born.”
“The Hungry Mother.” The Prince’s voice is low, as though even he hesitates to speak in the presence of this being. “True name: Madjra.”
“The Hungry Mother,” he says, “is Vervain’s own creation. Therefore, her bindings will always be the strongest, surest way to keep it contained.”
“If the bookwyrms eat the ideas, does that mean they eat the Noswraiths themselves?” “Yes. Unfortunately, that helps us very little. Whatever the wyrms manage to eat, the Noswraiths will regenerate swiftly enough. It’s the bindings that won’t regenerate without outside help.
“Where,” he repeats, each word ground through clenched teeth, “did you get that?” I gape at him, struggling to form words. “Th-Thaddeus Creakle.” My voice emerges in a pathetic squeak. “He gave it to me right before I—” “It was not his to give.” The Prince’s jaw clenches.
“Because, Clara Darling,” he says, breathing the words out like poison, “you are a Noswraith-maker. From your mind was born a darkness so terrible, so profound, it could wipe out half a kingdom in a single hour if left unbound.”
But his voice reaches out to me, sharp as a whiplash: “You killed the only person who ever loved me. You killed her. You are responsible. Because of what you carry inside you.”
“He had a darkness in him. Always did. And when he was young, it got out in the form of the Thorn Maiden. He spent the rest of his life fighting that part of himself which he had unleashed. But, as a result of that fight, the goodness in him grew stronger and stronger.” The old librarian smiles softly. “He was the best man I’ve ever known.”
“Please, Mistress Silveri, please tell me. I’ve got to know. Who was killed by the Noswraith I made? Who was it?” Her brow puckers and her eyes gleam in the candlelight, bright with sorrow. For a moment I fear she won’t answer; I fear she will simply send me away. But at last, she sighs. “Dasyra.” The name falls from her lips, heavy as a stone. “Queen Dasyra of Aurelis. His mother.”
The sound of her voice—the sight of her face—and something struck me. A blow to the heart. Not a physical blow. No . . . it was like my soul was suddenly pierced by a poison-tipped arrow. But this poison sent a jolt of pure ecstasy racing through my blood. I staggered back, clutching my chest, shocked at first. And then appalled. Raising my eyes, I looked at her again. In that moment, I recognized what she was.
