Enth stared at her mournfully. “I listen. You all think I am stupid, like an animal. I know what is said. I know what I am.” And then, because apparently he understood that was no answer, “There is a prophecy. I am part of it. Your leader and the other one both agreed, though in different ways. The prophecy is to destroy this Darvezian. Do you think the Dark Lord would not know? He would kill me, to be safe from me.”

Cyrene had not considered that logic, but she could not refute it. She even managed an infinitesimal nod.

“And he would not give me back what I was,” Enth added. “I do not know what you will do, when you have made use of me, but I must think Penthos can do it. Turn me back. Take me back.”

She made an encouraging noise.

“And it hurts.”

An iron hand, that had been gripping her so hard she had not been able to feel it, released her in a rush, and abruptly every joint was burning, shrilly insisting that she relieve it from its enforced stillness. And she couldn’t move much, although every part of her was trembling, but she had already been working at her tongue and lips, and she was able to say, “What?”

“What has been laid on me. The oath, the bonds. When I come close to breaking it, it burns like fire. And I don’t know what will make it burn, until it is too late. I am afraid.”

With a choked sound, Cyrene was on her feet, pins and needles searing across every part of her. For a moment she could only stamp and rub at her limbs and curse, while Enth watched her blankly.

“I—” she started, and then cursed and stamped some more. “I will argue your case, I swear. I will get Penthos to turn you back, if that is what you want. When we’re done. I’ll take you back to that forest you came from myself, if need be. I owe you.”

His expression suggested the concept was meaningless to him, but she felt it was important to make him understand.