The Broken Ones
Prequel to the Malediction Trilogy
Danielle L Jensen
Contents
Prologue
1. Pénélope
2. Marc
3. Pénélope
4. Marc
5. Pénélope
6. Marc
7. Marc
8. Pénélope
9. Marc
10. Pénélope
11. Marc
12. Pénélope
13. Marc
14. Pénélope
15. Marc
16. Marc
17. Pénélope
18. Marc
19. Pénélope
20. Marc
21. Marc
22. Pénélope
23. Marc
24. Marc
25. Pénélope
26. Marc
27. Pénélope
28. Marc
29. Pénélope
30. Marc
31. Pénélope
Epilogue
Encore
The Songbird’s Overture
A Character Guide to the World of The Malediction Trilogy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Melissa, who loves my characters
as much as I do. This one is for you!
Prologue
Marc
Blackness fell across the city, and with it came silence, the crowd of onlookers seeming to collectively hold their breaths as the edge of the moon appeared in the sole opening in the cavern’s rocky ceiling far above us. The silver orb inched into view, casting a stream of light down through the mist to fall upon the pair standing on the marble dais at the center of the river, their faces bright with nerves and anticipation as they waited for the magic to take hold. For the bond between their hearts and minds to be formed, remaining unbroken until one of them–
“And Liquid Shackles claims another two victims.”
Tristan’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I glanced at my cousin, who stood next to me watching the proceedings. “You’re a cynic,” I muttered under my breath.
“I’m a realist, Marc,” he replied, raising his hands to clap along with the rest of those watching the ceremony. “I can imagine little worse than having another’s emotions invading my skull for the rest of my days.”
“Because she won’t be able to pretend your jests are funny?” I suggested, turning to avoid the dark look our Aunt Sylvie, the Queen’s conjoined twin, was casting in our direction. Bondings were the most sacrosanct of our ceremonies, made more so by the fact they grew more and more infrequent as our race diminished and declined within the confines of the curse.
“Why would she have to pretend? Everyone knows I’m the epitome of wit.” Tristan grinned, then turned on his heel to carve through the crowd, nobility and commoners alike making way for their crown prince.
I followed, but couldn’t help one backward glance over my shoulder at the knot of trolls on the opposite side of the river from the King and Queen, searching their faces for one in particular. Pénélope stood arm-in-arm with her younger sister, Anaïs, their faces nearly touching, both of them laughing over some comedy that none of the nobility grouped around them seemed to appreciate. Although whether they appreciated the humor or not, every eligible man in their vicinity eyed them hungrily.
And for good reason.
Both were beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes of molten silver, but their desirability went beyond appearances. Beyond, even, that they were the daughters of the Duke d’Angoulême, who was reckoned the most influential aristocrat in Trollus after the King.
Pénélope and Anaïs were unafflicted.
Nearly every full-blooded troll was stricken in some way by the iron that bound us to this world, the toxic metal having stolen our ancestors’ immortality and then begun the slow process of poisoning and changing everyone who’d been born since. Madness, illness, disfigurement... Among our generation’s peerage, only the two girls and Tristan remained entirely untouched.
I’d not been so lucky.
As though sensing my scrutiny, Pénélope turned in my direction, and I lifted a hand before jerking it back down to my side as I caught sight of her father watching me over her head.
Tristan suffered no similar self-consciousness, raising a hand to waggle his fingers at the Duke, his mockery catching the attention of many of those around us, who shifted uneasily. The rivalry between the Montignys and the Angoulêmes was old as time, and no one wanted to be caught between them. Neither Tristan nor the Duke could risk it coming to blows with half a mountain’s worth of rock balanced precariously over our heads, but both families had a great deal of practice extracting their pound of flesh without resorting to magic.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.
Tristan only shrugged. “Better he think me an obnoxious royal brat than the alternative.”
The alternative. Sympathizer. Revolutionary. Traitor. It was a struggle not to lift a shield of magic to ward our conversation, but that would only make us appear as though we had something to hide. The Duke led the faction set on uprooting and destroying those sympathetic to the half-bloods’ plight, and finding out the identity of the revolution’s leadership was his priority. The last thing we needed was him discovering proof that the leadership was us.
Tristan and I made our way toward the palace gates, the illuminators working quickly to fill the crystal sconces, the magic having been extinguished for the sake of the ceremony. The lights revealed sections of white stonework, but the rest of the enormous building remained consigned to shadow. Much like the rest of Trollus. Much like me.
The party was in one of the larger courtyards, strands of silver wire and illuminated glass draped above fountains that sprayed mist into the air. Half-blood servants dressed in Montigny livery were already circulating, carrying trays of sparkling wine and delicacies imported at great cost from beyond the curse’s barrier. From the human world.
Tristan’s magic abruptly lifted two glasses off a passing tray, and he laughed as the half-blood girl struggled to keep the unbalanced contents from toppling to the ground, her magic catching at the sliding stemware and accidentally shattering one of the glasses.
Wine splattered across Tristan’s coat, soaking into the expensive fabric. He stopped laughing.
The half-blood stared at him in horror as silence fell across the courtyard, even the musicians’ fingers stilling on their instruments. “I am so sorry, Your Highness.”
“Sorry?” His voice was icy, and despite knowing it was all an act on his part, discomfort twisted in my stomach, because the half-blood didn’t know. Her fear was real.
“Tristan,” I said, because I had my own part to play in this ruse. “Let it go.”
If he heard me, he didn’t show it, and magic twisted through the air, invisible, but tangible. Dangerous.
The half-blood took one step back. Then another. But even if she fled, she would not get far.
Suddenly, the shards of broken glass rose from the ground, turning into floating liquid blobs that hovered between the half-blood and us. They drifted together, swirling and coalescing until the glass reformed. Droplets of wine eased out of Tristan’s sleeve to drip, one by one, into the vessel, turning to mist as they hit the heated glass.
“There.” Pénélope’s voice filled the air, soft and musical, and she took hold of the now-cool stem with slender fingers. “No damage done.”
Tension still clung to the courtyard, everyone watching. Waiting. Then Tristan clapped his hands together. “A nice trick, Pénélope.”
Music once again filled our ears, and Anaïs pushed past her sister. “You’re so dramatic, Trista
n.”
“Better than boring,” he shot back, then took her arm and led her off into the corner, both of them laughing. All the men in Trollus could stare at Anaïs as long as they wanted, but there wasn’t a soul who didn’t know it was my cousin who had the heart of Angoulême’s heir. The question in everyone’s minds was whether Tristan would flaunt the rivalry between his father and the Duke by bonding her anyway.
But I wasn’t interested in Tristan and Anaïs right now.
I stood rooted on the spot, unable to tear my eyes from Pénélope. Or to come up with anything clever to say, I thought, wondering when I’d become so tongue-tied around her. Despite the conflict between her family and Tristan’s, we’d been friends since we were children, but that easy camaraderie had burned away recently, replaced with something else entirely.
“You watched the bonding?” she asked, light reflecting off her irises as they darted to the new couple, then back to me. The wistfulness in her voice made my stomach clench, but I managed a nod.
“It was beautiful.”
You are beautiful. And I was glad the shadows cast by my hood allowed me to watch her openly, for a lovelier girl I’d never seen. Her inky hair was coiled in a multitude of braids set with jet pins, revealing her long graceful neck and delicate collarbone. Our fey nature made us all difficult to harm, but there were times she seemed as fragile to me as the glass flowers in our gardens. And should I ever have the privilege to touch her, I’d do so with equal care. “It was,” I managed to say.
“Have you ever wondered what it’s like?”
I shrugged, scuffing my boot against the ground. It was as close to a lie as the magic running through me would allow, because the truth was, I thought about it all the time. Specifically, I thought about what it would be like to be bonded to her.
“I wish…” Her voice faltered, and I opened my mouth to ask what it was that she wished, desperate to have some part of her, even if it were only something as small as a secret desire. But before I could say anything, I felt the press of power coming up behind me, and heard the Duke’s sharp voice say, “Come now, Pénélope. There were others who would have a moment of your time.”
Her eyes flashed with irritation. “Father, I’m–”
“Now.”
She flinched, and I turned with a mind to tell him to leave her alone, but his cold gaze froze my tongue. He looked me up and down, his lip curling up with distaste as he reached out to take Pénélope’s arm. But before he could drag her off to parade in front of whomever he desired a liaison with, the crowd of guests pushed in close, trapping him in place.
A space was forming in the courtyard, Tristan and Anaïs at the center, swords in hand, both their expressions gleeful.
“A duel,” someone shouted, and then my Aunt Sylvie started calling the odds. “Place your bets,” she shrieked, then pointed a finger at the Duke. “Your usual, Édouard? Or are you too busy meddling?”
Angoulême’s expression soured, and he waved a hand in her direction as though to drive her away. “Yes, yes. A thousand on Anaïs.”
“Done!”
The guests pressed tighter, and I found myself next to Pénélope. Her skirts brushed against my leg, and I held my breath, barely seeing as Tristan and Anaïs harried each other across the yard to the roaring approval of the aristocracy. Instead, my eyes tracked downward. Her dark purple gown was cut low enough to reveal the soft curve of her breasts, the black lace trim stark against her skin.
Sword clashed against sword, and I jerked my head up, watching Anaïs dive out of the way of Tristan’s blade, her cheek scraping against the paving stones. She was back on her feet in a flash, skin streaked with blood, but her magic already healing the injury, face unblemished within seconds. She lunged at Tristan, sending him stumbling, the crowd shrieking as she landed a blow against his wrist, the crack of bone audible above their noise. He swore and switched to fighting with his left arm, slamming his weapon against hers with brute strength rather than skill, barely managing to hold her off while his wrist healed.
“Come on, Anaïs,” Pénélope murmured, bouncing on her toes with excitement, her fingers brushing against mine. I closed my eyes, relishing the inappropriate thoughts that danced through my mind even as I tried to banish them. What was the point in thinking about them, in thinking about her, given that her father would never allow it to happen?
Swords collided. But instead of a sharp clang, the sound of the steel shattering punctuated the air. My eyes whipped to where Anaïs stood scowling at her ruined blade, shards of metal scattered on the ground around her. But a soft exclamation of pain drew my attention back to my more immediate proximity.
But Pénélope was no longer next to me.
I turned, watching as Angoulême dragged her through the crowd with silent determination, no one paying them the slightest bit of attention. But there was no mistaking that there was something wrong. That something had happened.
I nudged those around me to move, and when they didn’t, I pushed, forcing my way after Pénélope and her father.
Then a voice rang through the air. “Halt.”
Instinctively, I froze, as did every other troll in the courtyard, no one daring to tempt the King’s anger. Slowly turning my head, I saw Tristan and Anaïs unmoving, swords lowered. But it hadn’t been them to whom the King had spoken.
Rising from the chair where he’d been watching the duel, the King strolled toward Angoulême, the crowd parting like a tide to let him pass. “Away so soon, Your Grace? Are you certain of the outcome, or is it only that you have more pressing matters to which to attend?”
Angoulême dropped Pénélope’s arm, rotating on his heel to face the King, expression smooth. “My money is on Anaïs. I’m certain she will not cause me to be parted with it.”
The King laughed. “I’m inclined to agree. But what of you, Lady Pénélope? Do you not care to watch your sister triumph? Or perhaps you grow weary of constantly being outshone?”
Pénélope remained silent, her back to the King, and my heart lurched. Why did she not answer? Why did she not turn around? What could possibly cause her to court his wrath?
“You will face me when I’m speaking to you.” His voice was soft. Ominous. I inched in their direction, uncertain what I would do if he harmed her. Any attempt to stop him would be fruitless, but I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
“Turn around!” The King barked out the command, but he wasn’t angry. Angry men didn’t smile like that.
Pénélope looked at her father. The Duke’s face was as grim as I’d ever seen it, and he nodded once. “Do what he asks. It’s done now.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I only wanted what was best for my sister,” she said, then turned.
Her hand was pressed against the injury, but that did nothing to hide the crimson rivulets of blood tracing the pale skin of her chest. I lurched forward, the sound of Anaïs screaming her sister’s name loud in my ears as she bolted past.
She did not make it far.
Anaïs’s body jerked to a stop, tangled in invisible threads of the King’s magic, her head snapping forward with a crack. She went limp and would have crumpled to the ground, but Tristan caught her, her head lolling against his shoulder, body paralyzed until her magic healed her broken neck.
“Help her,” she pleaded. “Help her, Tristan. Please!”
Face ashen, Tristan lowered Anaïs to the ground. “What’s the point in this, Father? Far be it from me to judge what you find entertaining, but standing here and watching a lady bleed seems beneath you.” Pushing past me, he walked to Pénélope, extracting a handkerchief from his pocket and reaching for the hand she had pressed against the injury. “She must have been struck by a piece of the broken blade. Bad luck, but it will m…” His final word stuck in his throat as the injury was revealed.
A tiny shard of steel protruded from her flesh, blood seeping out around it. But what made my heart lurch were the black lines of iron rot already snaking out and away from
the wound. In a flash, Tristan jerked out the shard and pressed the handkerchief to the injury, but it was too late. Everyone had seen.
And everyone knew.
“Tragic,” the King murmured, then glanced over his shoulder at Anaïs, who was dragging herself to her feet. “So very, very tragic.” Then he turned back to the Duke. “The truth always outs, Your Grace. And we must all pay the consequences when it does.”
Chapter One
Pénélope
The sharp clang of steel against steel made my hand twitch and my paintbrush along with it, leaving a streak of black where none had been intended.
“Drat,” I muttered, accepting the proffered rag from my maid and dabbing at the errant paint.
The swords crashed together again and, despite it having been three weeks since the accident, I flinched. I wondered if I ever would not.
Sighing, I rested my wrist on my knee and shifted to watch my sister fight. Anaïs was harrying her opponent backward across the yard, dulled practice blade flashing with the skill not of one trained since she was old enough to hold a sword – though she had been – but of one who’d been born to battle. She fought as I imagined a viper would, so quick I scarce saw her move but she was there, her deadliness a matter of speed and agility rather than brute strength.
My eyes took in the whirl of motion, envisioning how I might capture it with paint, but my hands almost instinctively reached for my pencil and sketchbook, because nothing else would ever capture my sister’s exquisite beauty and strength better than crisp lines of black against a plane of white. Anaïs needed no embellishments, and that’s all color would be.
She feinted left but struck right, her blow landing square against her opponent’s side with an audible crack. Tristan swore and stumbled, his gloved hand pressing against ribs that were almost certainly fractured.
I swallowed hard, trying my best not to think of the bones knitting and reforming, bruises rising and fading within seconds. Or to think about what happened when they did not.
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