ARC: Stolen Songbird

by Danielle L. Jensen

  The world spun and I jerked away from her grip. Behind me, a small group of trolls had silently gathered and they watched me stumble down the steps towards them. Not all of them were deformed, but they were monsters still, every one of them. And I was to wed one. To be bedded by one. To bear its children. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be on my way to Trianon to get everything I had ever wanted. Now, not only had I lost everything – my family, my friends, my dreams – I had just been informed that what life I had left would be spent in an endless nightmare.

  I heard motion behind me, and Luc bent to pass me a handkerchief. “At least you’ll be rich,” he murmured into my ear. “Just close your eyes and think of gold.”

  I spat at him, the glob of vomit-tinged spit dribbling down his cheek. He raised a hand to slap me, but it froze in place.

  “There will be none of that, Monsieur Luc.” The tiny troll’s face grew cold and expressionless.

  “You can’t make me do this,” I said to her, climbing to my feet. “I want to go home.”

  Her brow crinkled, but whether from sympathy or anger, I couldn’t tell. “This is your home now, Cécile.”

  “No.” I shook my head rapidly, heedless of the tears running down my face. “I’d rather die.”

  She tilted her head. “Making statements like that will do you no good, girl. We will only have you watched day and night to ensure you do not harm yourself.”

  I bolted down the steps, but barely got halfway before bands of warm power lashed around my waist, lifting me up into the air. I screamed, but the sound abruptly cut off as a ball of what could only be magic shoved its way between my teeth. I struggled to breathe as invisible cords dragged me through the air and dropped me in front of the troll queen’s conjoined twin.

  “You are only making things more difficult for yourself.”

  Hovering in the air with my arms bound and my mouth gagged, it was hard to put up much of a show of resistance, but I threw venom into my glare. The tiny troll chuckled. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll grant you that.”

  The King abruptly rose to his feet. “We are of a mind to let Tristan have a look at her first. Perhaps she won’t be to his taste.”

  “How could she be?” a dry voice chimed in from behind me. “She’s human.”

  I craned my neck around to look at the troll who had spoken. He was older, black hair streaked with grey. My eyes searched for whatever defect marked him like the other trolls, but there was none. He was shaped as well as any human, but there was no mistaking what he was. Otherness radiated from him, and the malice in his metallic gaze made me look away.

  “The human part isn’t negotiable,” the King snapped. “And if I wanted your opinion, Angoulême, I would have asked.” He turned back to the little troll woman. “You are certain this will work?”

  “If we’ve interpreted the foretelling correctly, then yes,” she said.

  “Ironic, don’t you think, that Tristan was the only one to bear witness to this foretelling,” the troll called Angoulême said. “Unless you can remember the details, Sylvie?”

  The Duchesse shook her head.

  “I was there,” the Queen chimed in. “Of course my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  No one paid her any attention except me. I desperately wanted to know more about the circumstances that had brought me here. What did the foretelling say and what did it have to do with me? Was it just because I was a convenient human girl, or was there something more? Why, if they loathed humans so much, could they possibly want to wed me to a prince? Only that wasn’t the word she’d used – she’d said I’d be bonded to him. What did that even mean?

  “I questioned Tristan myself,” the King snapped. “For all his faults, the boy has excellent attention to detail. He made no mistakes.”

  “I didn’t say he had,” Angoulême said. “My concern is rather for what he might have done on purpose.”

  “Enough!” The King gestured to the doors. “Let him see her. If he is content, we will proceed.”

  “He will be.” The Duchesse’s voice was so quiet, only I heard. “She will shake the foundations of Trollus to the core. Mark my words.”

  We walked in a procession through the corridors. Or rather, they walked and I floated along behind them. While I might normally have been keen to experience the weightlessness of flying, the knowledge that I flew towards an unwanted fate ruined the effect. The Queen marched in front of me, leaving me to face her tiny sister for the journey. My mind spun with the possibilities awaiting me, each more horrible than the next. Would he be dimwitted like the Queen? Deformed like Marc? Enormously fat as his father, the King? He could be all of them together, or more terrible than my wildest imagination.

  I made little note of the palace corridors as we passed through them. I couldn’t make out anything clearly, anyway. A tiny ball of light floated in front of every member of our small entourage, though the gloom troubled the trolls not in the slightest. Their metallic eyes pierced the darkness, and I marked how they watched me, finding it impossible to decipher what they were thinking. Did their cold hearts pity me? Were the women glad it was I, and not they, floating towards this forced match? A fresh crop of tears stung the cuts on my cheeks. I tried to wipe them away, but of course, I could not. My body was bound in place as surely as if I’d been tied head to foot with rope.

  Ahead of the procession, I heard the tinkling laugh of a girl and the sound of a door slamming against a wall.

  “His Majesty, the King!” the two-headed troll guard announced.

  Afraid, I squeezed my eyes shut. When I finally found the nerve to open them, I hovered in a room richly decorated with tapestries and thick carpets. At its center stood a table and two high-backed chairs. Above the table floated half a dozen boards littered with tiny figurines. A young woman stood next to a chair, her face lowered and knees bent into a deep curtsy. Little of who sat in the other seat was visible to me, for his back was to us: only the bend of a black-clad elbow, the curve of a pale-skinned hand resting on the arm of the chair.

  My head swam and I gasped for air, having unconsciously been holding my breath. The girl rose, and her eyes latched onto me. She was beautiful, for an instant, and then her expression twisted with rage. The game boards fell to the table with a clatter. I jerked my gaze away from hers, fixing it instead on the tiny figures spilled across the carpet.

  “You can’t be serious?” she hissed. “Her? This, this thing?”

  The Duchesse spoke. “Leave us, Anaïs.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Now, Anaïs. This is no business of yours.”

  The girl remained fixed on the spot, jaw clenched in obvious anger.

  “Anaïs.” The King spoke softly, but the girl reacted to the sound of her name as though she’d been slapped, recoiling backward. I watched in amazement as a red, hand-shaped mark rose briefly on her cheek, then faded away. Eyes filled with real terror, the troll girl cowered in front of us.

  “Get. Out.”

  “Your Majesties. Your Grace,” the girl whispered as she bolted out of the rooms. If the thick carpets managed to muffle the hurried thump of her heeled shoes, they did nothing to hide the slam of the door shutting behind us.

  The King cleared his throat. “Tristan, we have the human.”

  The Prince said nothing at first, but the boards rose once again into the air, invisible fingers plucking the pieces off the carpet, pausing in consideration, and then returning them to their places on the board. “We’d been at this round for nigh on three months now.”

  His voice was quiet, marked with the faint accent all the trolls had, and showed no concern for the female companion his father had just slapped. I shuddered, wishing he would turn around and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t.

  “I’m certain Anaïs will regret dropping the game,” the King said.

  The Prince laughed softly, but he didn’t sound the least bit amused to me. “Unlikely, given that she was losing.
She hates to lose.”

  The King frowned. “Tristan, I thought you’d want to have a look at the girl before we…” he glanced over at me, “finalized the contract.”

  The Prince’s hand flexed, fingers digging ever so slightly into the upholstery. I might not even have noticed if not for the fact my eyes had been fixated on that one glimpse of flesh, trying to judge his proportion and failing mightily.

  “Why?” The irritation in his voice cut across the room. “My opinion of this venture has counted for nothing up to this point.”

  “Well, it matters now,” the King snapped. “Look at her. Decide.”

  The Prince didn’t move. “And if I say no?”

  “Then we’ll procure another.”

  “And if I don’t like her,” the Prince asked, “will you procure another? Will you empty your vaults searching for a human girl who meets the criteria and whom I find tolerable? Will the river run red with the blood of my discards?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “This one will do as well as any.”

  He rose suddenly from the chair, and before I had the chance to take a breath, he turned. All my preparations were for naught, for despite the magic gagging me, I still managed to gasp aloud.

  He was nothing like what I’d expected.

  CHAPTER 5

  CéCILE

  Prince Tristan was tall and lean, and a fierce intellect gleamed in his silver troll eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than I was – that is, if trolls aged the same way humans do. Dressed impeccably, he wore a black frock coat with a single-breasted vest and fine linen shirt beneath. Black breeches were tucked into black riding boots that I doubted had ever seen the sides of a horse.

  He also had the most exquisite face of any boy I’d ever seen. Inky black hair, sculpted cheekbones and jaw, and a full but unsmiling mouth. He looked like Prince Charming from the fairytales, except for one thing: Prince Charming was human, and the boy standing in front of me was decidedly not. His pale skin was too flawless, his motions too smooth and controlled. My skin prickled with a sense of wrongness.

  He crossed his arms. “You know, it is exceedingly rude to stare.”

  I flinched and began an intent examination of the carpet at my feet. Apparently I could scratch the charming bit as well.

  “Be pleasant, Tristan,” the Duchesse said.

  He sniffed. “She’s the rude one, Aunty. First she stares and now she refuses to look at me. I’m quite convinced I have greens or something worse stuck between my teeth.”

  I glanced up, hoping to catch a glimpse of said teeth. He caught me and grinned. “Were you expecting them to be pointed?”

  My face burned and I fixed my eyes back on the carpet, determined never to look up again. I immediately caught myself glancing through my eyelashes at him once more.

  “Pointed teeth would give one an appearance of ferocity,” he said, tapping a straight white tooth. “Although that might require one to follow through with biting someone from time to time, and the thought is enough to make one feel ill. I don’t even like my meat cooked rare.”

  “You bit Vincent once,” Marc said from behind me. “So you can’t be entirely opposed to the idea.”

  Tristan shot a vitriolic glare in his direction. “Curse you for bringing up such vile memories, Marc, and in the presence of a girl. In my defense, lady, I was only three and Vincent was sitting on my head. I rather thought I was about to meet my end suffocated between his bum cheeks. Anyone would have done the same. Wouldn’t you agree, mademoiselle… what did you say her name was again?”

  Even if I hadn’t a gag of magic in my mouth, I wouldn’t have dared spoken.

  Tristan peered at me as though I were a curious insect. “She isn’t mute, is she? That would be dreadful.” He leaned back against the chair, his strange eyes fixed on me. “On second thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be dreadful at all. I hardly need another woman in my life telling me what to do, and it would mean I could do all the talking and she the listening.”

  “Perhaps our mistake was in not finding you a deaf one,” Marc said. “And her name is Cécile de Troyes, which you very well know, so quit pretending otherwise.”

  “Thank you, cousin. It was on the tip of my tongue. Now Mademoiselle de Troyes, tell us your thoughts. Astound us with your wit.”

  “Mmmmm hmmmm,” I mumbled around the gag.

  “Could you repeat that?” he said, coming closer. “Afraid I didn’t quite catch the punch line.” A slender finger caught me under the chin, lifting my face. He frowned. “Release her, Aunty.”

  “She tried to run.”

  A noise of exasperation passed his lips. “To where? There is nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Binding her is unnecessary.”

  His flippancy made my heart sink – the very idea of my escape was so improbable to him that it was little more than a jest.

  I felt power brush over my skin, and I dropped to numb feet. If not for Marc taking hold of my arm, I’d have sprawled across the carpets in front of them all.

  “Now that your speech impediment has been rectified, perhaps you might say something. It would be best if it were humorous. I enjoy a good jest.”

  “You are dreadfully rude,” I said to him.

  He sighed. “That wasn’t the slightest bit funny.”

  “Nor are you in any way a gentleman.”

  “Cruel truths, mademoiselle, but tell me, did you expect otherwise?” His eyes gleamed, not with humor, but something else.

  “I confess my expectations were low,” I snapped.

  “I’m a firm believer in low expectations, myself,” he said cheerfully. “Makes for less disappointment in life. For instance, I expected you to arrive fully clothed, but here you are in little more than a scrap of fabric that might once have been a shift.” His eyes raked over my body, and I jerked the edges of Marc’s cloak around me.

  “Watch your tongue, Tristan,” the Duchesse snapped.

  “Ridiculous expression, that,” Tristan said. “I can’t very well observe my own tongue unless I am to sit in front of a mirror, and I can’t tolerate such vanity. Now tell me, Cécile – you don’t mind if I call you by your given name, do you? Considering we are about to become as close as a dog to his fleas, the familiarity seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

  I glared at him.

  “Splendid! As I was saying then, Cécile, what became of your clothing? Or is this the latest fashion on the Isle, and I am merely behind the times?”

  I scowled at him. “I was deprived of my dress.”

  “Really?” One eyebrow rose. “That sounds most salacious – perhaps you’ll regale us with the details later?”

  “Perhaps not.” I crossed my arms tightly, trying to hide my mortification.

  “More’s the pity,” Tristan sighed rather melodramatically. “It would have been the first interesting thing you’ve said.”

  “Are you very nearly finished, Tristan?” the King asked wearily. “We are somewhat pressed for time.”

  “Nearly,” Tristan agreed. “I have only one question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Who damaged her? Granted, I don’t spend much time in the company of humans, but in my experience, they don’t generally drip blood without cause. I was under the impression I’d be getting a whole and healthy human.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Marc jerk his chin in Luc’s direction. Tristan’s gaze turned to my kidnapper, whose arm remained frozen up in the air where the Duchesse had left it, perpetually poised to strike. The Prince’s jaw tightened, and the temperature in the room rose, driving the chill from my fingers.

  “Tristan.” The King stood behind me, but I heard the warning note in his voice. “He upheld his end of the bargain. We shall uphold ours.”

  The troll prince rubbed a hand across his face, his countenance turning to indifference. “Of course. We agreed to her weight in gold, did we not?”

  I gasped, as horrified as I was astonished by the amount.

 
“Aye, Your Highness,” Luc replied.

  “You see, Mademoiselle de Troyes, another instance where low expectations have served me well. Given the contract your dear friend Luc made with us, I half expected him to deliver me a girl of prodigious girth to tip the scales in his favor. Imagine what a pleasant surprise it was for me to discover you were just a little bit of a thing.”

  “Tristan.” The King’s voice oozed admonition.

  Tristan’s mouth twisted up at the corner. “Well then, best of luck in your travels through the labyrinth with all your gold, Monsieur Luc. I hope you have a strong back.” He gave Luc a companionable slap on the shoulder that sent him staggering, but also released his frozen arm.

  Luc shot him a black glare and rubbed his shoulder. “Aye, my lord. Best wishes on your forthcoming nuptials.”

  To this, Tristan said nothing, only strode out of the room. I cringed, though; for as much as I did not want to marry a troll, I was just as certain the troll didn’t want to marry me.

  The bargain truly was for my weight in gold. Our procession continued through the hallways and into enormous rooms piled high with treasure of every sort. Gold and silver in heavy chests, amethysts and opals spilling across tables or adorning priceless jewelry. Stacks of precious plates and beautiful glassworks sat on tables or the floor. In the center stood a giant copper scale, and a warm coil of power gently lifted and deposited me on one side. Luc leapt to sort through the treasure, piling up select pieces on the other side of the scale, a grin plastered on his face. Gold coins, gold plates, gold jewelry, and even a golden duck statuette, but when he tossed up a jeweled necklace, the King snapped his fingers.

  “Gold only, boy!”

  Marc plucked the offending jewels off the scale (I don’t think the King moved if he could help it) and tossed the necklace back into the piles of treasure.

  Then they dithered. A coin here, a coin there, all in an attempt to secure a perfect alignment. My incessant shivering set the scale to trembling and did not speed along the process. They had deprived me of my cloak and boots, leaving me in only a shift and my mother’s necklace. The King certainly would have stripped me naked if not for the intervention of the Queen and her sister. As it was, I was frozen and hungry and I desperately had to pee. No doubt the King would have sent me to the privy to rid myself of the extra weight, but I wasn’t about to share my discomfort.