Stolen Songbird

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “To sing on all the greatest stages,” I said. “Not just in Trianon, but in the continental kingdoms as well. My mother… She’s very famous, but she never leaves Trianon. Ever. She rarely even comes to visit us.”

  “They live apart, your mother and father.” It wasn’t a question – I knew that he knew all about me.

  I flushed. “Yes. When my father was young, he left the farm to go live in the city. He met my mother, and they… well, she had my brother, my sister, and me. When my grandfather passed, my father went back to take over the farm and he brought us with him. She wouldn’t leave Trianon.”

  “But she’s his wife,” Tristan said indignantly. “She is duty-bound to go wherever he wants her to go.”

  “Not according to her,” I said. “And besides, duty has got nothing to do with it. What matters is that she didn’t love him or us enough to give up her career.”

  “You consider love more important than duty, then?”

  I hesitated. “I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”

  Tristan slowly shook his head. “I think not. Otherwise individuals such as your mother, who clearly love themselves above all things, will use love as a defense of their actions. And who would be able to argue against them? Duty,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “is what keeps selfishness from inheriting the earth.”

  “How bitterly pragmatic.”

  He glanced down at me. “I find a certain comfort in pragmatism.”

  “Cold comfort,” I retorted.

  “Is better than no comfort.”

  I rolled my eyes, irritated with his circular logic. But he had a point. Staring down at the paving stones, I remembered the silent sorrow on my father’s face whenever my mother’s name was mentioned. “He always gave her whatever she wanted,” I said quietly.

  “And at what cost to you and your siblings?” Tristan asked. “He sounds weak.”

  “He isn’t!” I retorted, my indignation rising. “He’s a good and strong man – it’s only her to whom he always gives in. I love my father. I miss him.” Sorrow shrouded me and I wrapped my cloak around me tighter. “I don’t even know her. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her since I was small.” My throat felt tight and I blinked rapidly against the sting in my eyes. “Not that it matters anymore.”

  “It matters.” His voice was low, and even if we hadn’t been alone on the street, no one would have heard but me. He slowed his pace, looking over his shoulder at me. The weight of the promise he’d made to me hung in his eyes – the promise for which he’d asked nothing in return. To set me free. I focused on filling my mind with gratitude, knowing he would feel it, and hoping he would understand what it was for. Almost too late did I see the beam of sunlight crossing his path.

  “No!” I gasped, throwing my weight into Tristan, knocking him down sideways into a narrow alleyway.

  He stared up at me in astonishment. “Have you lost your mind or is this some sort of retaliation?”

  I eyed the beam of sunlight that was still too close for comfort. “The sun.”

  “What about it?”

  “Everyone knows that trolls turn to stone in the sunlight,” I said, although from the look on Tristan’s face I was starting to doubt the “everyone knows” part.

  His astonishment faded and to my horror, he started to laugh. Reaching out one arm, he waggled his fingers in the sun. “Oh, the stories you humans come up with,” he gasped out, and my cheeks burned.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “This is what I get for putting stock in fables.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He smiled up at me and my heart skipped a beat. “Are there any other myths I should know about?”

  I felt breathless and acutely aware that I was indecently sprawled across him and he had made no move to push me away. My skin burned everywhere I was in contact with him: where my hipbone pressed against his, where my arm rested against the hard muscle of his chest, rising and falling with the rapidness of his breath. Most of all, where his hand pressed against my lower back, holding me against him.

  “Well,” I said, “trolls are supposed to have an enormous fondness for gold.”

  “Well, that is certainly true.”

  “And you’re supposed to have great hoards of it.” I thought about the half-bloods toiling day in and day out to extract the golden metal from the mountain. And they’d been at it for centuries.

  “True,” he laughed, “but I’ve also noticed in myself the tendency to hoard pocket lint and scraps of paper.”

  I smirked. “The stories don’t mention pocket lint.”

  He sighed. “Dreadfully inaccurate, these tales. Perhaps I should write my own in order to clear up these misconceptions. Or create new ones?”

  “Pointed teeth?” I asked, pretending to growl at him.

  “Perhaps hoards of human bones.”

  I laughed. “I think that one already exists – trolls are supposed to boil human children in their cooking pots.”

  He grimaced. “That one came into existence after the Fall – I’m sure you can speculate as to why.”

  I blanched. “It’s true?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he said, solemn expression at odds with the amusement I knew he felt.

  “You’re horrible,” I grumbled, then thought for a minute. “The stories also say that accepting troll gold will cost you more than you think, and that it can get you into a great deal of trouble.”

  “True. If the human is greedy, the trouble is far worse. Anything else?”

  I hesitated and his brow crinkled. “Well?”

  “Trolls,” I finally said, “are supposed to be ugly.”

  He looked away, cheek pressed against the ground and eyes fixed on the wall of a house only a few inches from his face. “I suppose to you humans, many of us are.”

  My thoughts turned to Marc, who was always kind to me when no one else was. “They aren’t ugly.” I bit my lip, trying to find the right words. “More like beautiful things that have had the misfortune of being broken.” Tristan turned his face back to me. I saw the sorrow in his eyes and felt it in my heart. “Why are you always so unhappy?” I asked.

  “I think it is our nature to believe evil always has an ugly face,” he said, ignoring my question. “Beauty is supposed to be good and kind, and to discover it otherwise is like a betrayal of trust. A violation of the nature of things.”

  “Do you think trolls are evil?” I asked.

  “Do you?” His eyes searched mine as though he might find the answer there.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  He exhaled softly, reaching up and stroking my cheek with one hand. “From your lips I can almost believe it’s true.”

  My breath came in short little gasps. The desire for him to touch me, to kiss me, was so strong, it felt like another entity had taken over my mind. And maybe it had. Maybe he had. I could feel his need like it was my own. It was my own. Whatever boundaries existed between our minds fell away in that moment, making it impossible to differentiate between my emotions and his. But that didn’t matter, because we both wanted the same thing.

  “Cécile,” he whispered, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my face closer. “I…”

  “This is indecent behavior, even for you, Tristan. Especially for you,” a dry voice said from behind us.

  Tristan’s shock mirrored my own, but while I was busy scrambling to my feet and smoothing my skirts, he merely folded an arm behind his head and crossed his booted ankles. “Afternoon, Your Grace. Cécile, this is the Duke d’Angoulême.”

  “I’m not interested in being introduced to your pet, Tristan.” The Duke leaned on his golden-handled cane. “But I am interested to know why you are cavorting with it in the shadows.”

  “I had a pet mouse once,” Tristan said. “I kept it in a box in my wardrobe and fed it cheese and bread crusts until one of the maids tattled on me to my mother. Not that she cared, of course, but when my father found
out, he took my mouse away. He said to me, ‘Tristan, if you are to ever have a pet anything, it will be a pet of my choosing, and it certainly won’t be a mouse.’” Tristan smiled. “When my father gives me an order, I’ve always found it’s in my best interest to listen.”

  “I’m well aware that the decision for you to bond this creature was your father’s,” the Duke said, his voice frigid. “I am also aware that you protested mightily against the union – I was one of the unfortunate few forced to listen to you go on at length.” He smiled. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  A flash of irritation seared through our bond, but Angoulême never would have guessed it. “Dreadfully funny reason, really.” Tristan smirked. “Or it would be, if you had a sense of humor to speak of, Angoulême.”

  “Try me.”

  “I was walking along, listening to the girl prattle on about something she no doubt considered very important, when out of nowhere she shoved me clear off my feet.”

  “Something we’ve all wanted to do,” the Duke said.

  Tristan made a face. “What an awful thing to say. Anyway, when I inquired as to her motivation for the unexpected act of violence, I discovered that she was of the mistaken belief that trolls turned to stone when exposed to the sun’s rays.” He pointed at the beam of sunlight that had moved a few inches further away. “Dear thing thought she was saving my life.”

  “What reason have you given her to want to do that?”

  “I asked myself the very same question,” Tristan said, rising to his feet.

  “Did you come to any conclusions?”

  Tristan raised both his hands and shrugged. “Tale as old as time, I suppose. Human women throwing themselves at our feet, blinded by beauty, power, wealth. No matter how they are used and abused, they always come back for more. Like loyal dogs.” He smirked. “Did you expect this one to be any different?”

  In the past, his words had always been softened by the guilt he felt in saying them, but this time all I felt was vicious animosity. I tried to unravel his words – to see how I was different from those women – but I couldn’t. He did treat me poorly, and what had I just done if not thrown myself at his feet. My skin crawled with the realization of how pathetic that made me, but reason still governed my mind enough to know that I needed to play along; needed to play my part. “Is that what you think I am? A dog? Some poor beast you can pat on the head or kick in the ribs as suits your pleasure?”

  Tristan laughed. “Not literally, of course. I’ve yet to hear you bark.”

  It was too much.

  I slapped him hard enough that my palm burned and my arm ached from the impact, but the pain was sweet. Raising my hand, I swung it again, but he caught my wrist, his motion so fast it seemed a blur. Fast enough that I knew he could have stopped my first blow if he’d wanted to.

  “When a dog bites,” the Duke said softly, “you put it down.”

  Tristan pulled me aside, stepping between me and the Duke. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Your Grace? Kill her on the chance I wouldn’t survive it? My brother – your ward – becomes heir to the throne. How long until my father suffers an untimely death and you become king of Trollus in all but name?”

  “Big accusations, boy,” the Duke hissed. “And I confess, I find it more than a little ironic that you of all people dare to accuse me of treason.” He jabbed a long white finger against Tristan’s chest. “I know what you are, Your Highness, and where your true sympathies lie. When I find proof, it will be the end of you.”

  “You’ll be looking for a long time, Your Grace,” Tristan said coolly, but I could feel the fury running through his veins. Fury and fear.

  “Perhaps,” the Duke replied. His eyes raked over me and he smiled. “Tell me, Tristan, how does your pet human feel about your ongoing affair with Anaïs? Or does she really hate you so much that she doesn’t care?”

  I staggered back, my veins filled with ice. “What do you mean ongoing?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Angoulême wrinkled his lip. “Where did you think he was going every night, girl? In my experience, there is only one thing that drives a man from a warm bed and that’s the bed of another.”

  “Tristan, what is he talking about?” I asked, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Shame mixed with fury seeped into my mind.

  “Can’t even deny it, can you, boy?”

  Tristan’s hands balled into fists, but he didn’t refute what Angoulême was saying. The pain of betrayal flooded through me. I’d trusted him. I’d put my fate in his hands thinking he was working to set me free, and the whole time he’d been sneaking off to meet with another girl. Worst of all, I’d thought he’d cared – that beneath the act necessitated by our circumstances he’d wanted things to be different. Wanted me.

  Snatching up my skirts, I ran, my boots making faint slapping noises against the paving stones, the beam of my light bouncing as I raced through the winding back lanes of the city. Up and up the valley I went until I reached the waterfall, the spray dampening my dress as I stood staring up at the hole through which it fell. The Devil’s Cauldron, and I was in hell itself. Misery doused my anger like a bucket of water on flames, and I clenched a hand against the sharp pain rising up beneath my ribs. And the worst of it was that I knew I’d brought this pain upon myself. I’d been a fool to care about Tristan and doubly a fool to hope that he might feel the same for me.

  I stood with my eyes closed, waiting for someone to tell me to step back from the edge of the waterfall and go back to the palace that was my prison. Then it dawned on me – I was alone. My eyelids snapped opened and I took stock of my situation. Tristan had dismissed my guards, and they hadn’t argued – why should they when Tristan was more than capable of controlling me? But Tristan hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d left him. If there was ever a chance, this was it.

  Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I stared up the flight of stone steps that led to the gate and the shadows beyond. Sweat trickled down my back as I gazed up into the darkness. Turning, I stared down the valley towards the glowing city. There was nothing for me there. But if I made it through… I thought of my grandmother and the rest of my family. Of Sabine. The wide open spaces of the countryside. I remembered the heat of the sun on my face and the sweet pleasure of freedom. The choice was obvious.

  Moving as fast as I dared, I felt my way up the steps until I reached the narrow platform and reached out for the cold bars. Fumbling around in my hair, I pulled a metal pin from my coiled locks. “Please work,” I whispered falling to my knees. Inserting the pin into the lock, I twisted it, waiting for the telltale click.

  It stuck.

  “Please, please, please,” I chanted, trying again.

  Nothing. I glanced back at the city, half-expecting to see someone running up the steps to prevent my escape, but I was alone. Unlike the gate to the River Road, this entrance was devoid of any troll soldiers. The labyrinth needed no guardian. Its very nature was deterrent enough.

  Gritting my teeth together, I jammed the hairpin back inside the lock and closed my eyes, working by touch. Then, with a click, the lock sprung open.

  CHAPTER 22

  TRISTAN

  I slumped against the wall, head in my hands, stone digging into my spine. Everything was falling apart – Angoulême would not have been so open with his threats unless he was certain. The man was a cold-hearted devil, but no fool. It wouldn’t be long until he played his cards, and I was certain those cards would involve Cécile. If he thought the rewards worth it, he would not hesitate to break my father’s laws. Most likely it would be a threat against her life that would force me to reveal my plots or watch her die. And risk dying along with her. Or, if he thought she knew anything, he might just take her and torture the information out of her. Once, I might have been able to see it through – to watch an innocent girl die for the greater good.

  But no longer. Now I was certain that I’d sacrifice everything to save her.

  The sound
of footsteps caught my attention and I raised my head to see Marc coming towards me. A barrier of magic snapped up around us. “What the bloody hell is going on?” he asked. “I just saw Angoulême walking down the street looking like he’d been offered the keys to the treasure room.”

  I grimaced and stared at the tops of my boots. “More like the crown itself. He saw me with Cécile.”

  “What of it?” Marc retorted. “No one can expect you to avoid her completely.”

  “In a compromising position.”

  “Oh.” Marc’s voice softened. “I see.”

  “He knows, Marc,” I said. “He’s always suspected where my true sympathies lie, but now he knows the way to force my hand. He’ll use her, mark my words.”

  “And if he does?”

  I swallowed hard and looked up at my cousin, my best friend. The only person in this world I trusted, and even he did not know all my secrets. “I didn’t think this would happen,” I pleaded. “I didn’t think I would care for her this way…” I broke off. “I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” Marc said. “If you didn’t care about her life, then you wouldn’t be the man I thought you were.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  Marc chuckled. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I know. Now, where has she gotten off to?”

  I raked my fingers through my hair. “She ran off. Angoulême told her I was having an affair with Anaïs.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I know!” I snapped, my frustration rising. “But I couldn’t very well admit that in front of him.”

  “Well, go find her now and tell her the truth!”

  I raised my head, eyes drawn north towards the falls, her misery a magnet to my own. She must have run without stopping to be so far away.

  Too far away.

  I leapt to my feet.

  “What is it? Has something happened?” There was alarm in Marc’s voice – he was fond of Cécile. He also knew better than most what would happen if she died.

  My heart skittered and a wave of dizziness swept over me. “She’s in the labyrinth.”