“The river would’ve run red,” Báthory responded, her voice dreamy – clearly missing the point. But I hadn’t. I’d witnessed the same incident and knew for a fact the half-blood had come out of the incident unscathed but for her drenched livery. Tristan could have done much worse, and no one would have cared. But he hadn’t. And, as I bent my memory to the task, I realized he never had injured a half-blood beyond the slice of his cruel words. Just how much of his behavior was an act?
“But Your Grace, we’ve had him followed for weeks and weeks,” a man’s voice said, and I recognized it as belonging to one of my cousins. “He’s not meeting with them.”
“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t leading them through an agent.”
Sweat trickled down my forehead, the magic beneath me trembling with the effort it took to sustain its shape. But I had to hear this.
“Who do you favor for the role?”
“The Biron boy is the obvious choice – those other two fools he keeps company with haven’t the wherewithal for the task.”
The gazebo filled with laughter.
“You jest, Your Grace,” someone said. “Marc Biron is a broken boy content to hide in the shadows. He barely has the bravery to speak to a crowd of three, much less muster the enthusiasm of thousands of half-bloods.”
Fury gave my magic strength and my raft steadied beneath me. Their mockery didn’t surprise me, but still I hated that they’d judge Marc so cruelly. He was twice the man of any of those present.
“What about Anaïs?” Báthory asked. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes, and even to those without, that she’s in love with Tristan.”
The gazebo grew silent, and I prayed no one would hear the water sloshing over my raft, my fingernails scraping against the stone.
“Anaïs is no sympathizer,” my father said, and my blood chilled. “From her own lips she has told me that she believes half-bloods and humans to be inferior to us.”
Which is exactly why she was fighting on their behalf. A latent pang of guilt bit at my insides as I remembered how I’d accused her otherwise.
“Our focus,” my father said, “must be on capturing their leader.”
“How?”
“We know the sympathizers are meeting in the Dregs. When the time is right, I propose a raid to catch the Biron boy in the act.”
“And then what?” Báthory asked. “Attempt to force the information that Tristan is the true leader of the revolution out of him? Do you honestly believe the King will allow us to torture his nephew, the son of his closest advisor?”
“Hardly.” My father snorted with amusement. “We publicly deliver Marc to the King and leave Thibault to extract the information by whatever means he sees fit. He’ll have no choice.”
My raft wobbled, and I sank deeper in the water, unable to stop bits of magic from breaking away. And I had nothing more to give. My dress was drenched, my body trembling with effort. Another minute, and I’d be in the water, which would see me either dead or caught. And I needed to get this information to Marc.
“And if the boy won’t turn on his cousin?” Báthory asked. “A lack of loyalty isn’t one of his faults – he might well take the information to the grave rather than betray Tristan.”
“Leave that to me,” my father responded. “I–”
The current tugged insistently at my raft, and my fingers slipped. I floated through the tunnel, unable to hear what his response was, or if he’d even given one. All that mattered now was making it clear of his traps. Of getting out of the atrium and out of my house to warn Marc of my father’s plans.
Tears of effort streamed down my face as I exited the tunnel, but still I looked up.
Prince Roland looked down. He cocked his head slightly to the side, clearly recognizing my weakening illusion for what it was, and smiled.
Fear like nothing I’d ever known filled me, the current suddenly sluggish and slow and doing nothing to whisk me away.
A filament of magic nudged the edge of my raft and I wobbled. Roland’s smile grew, and magic nudged me again, harder this time. My leg slipped off the edge, and I jerked it back, clinging to the soft mess that was sinking deeper and deeper.
My breath came in fast little gasps, but there was nothing I could do but watch as the mad prince reached out one little hand and flicked his finger.
My magic disappeared and I sank like a stone, my bare feet hitting the stream bed.
Nothing happened.
Barely an inch ahead of my toes I felt the faintest warmth of magic, but luck or fate or the stars had allowed the current to pull me just beyond the reach of my father’s trap. But Roland knew someone was here. Knew there was a spy in his midst.
He stared down at me and I stared back, frozen within the weak cover of water and darkness.
Then a feral fury filled the little boy’s face, and he half turned as though he’d been called. I wondered, in that brief, painful moment, if my father knew just how dangerous the six-year-old Montigny prince was. Then Roland’s expression smoothed. He waggled his fingers once at me and disappeared into the confines of the gazebo.
I could scarcely breathe, and it took a moment to regain enough control of my limbs to take one step back, then two, then three, until I was hidden around the bend of the stream. I remained crouched in the icy water until the meeting finished, until the group had departed from the atrium, until the house grew silent.
Only then did I find the courage to move.
I ran.
Chapter Thirteen
Marc
I sat on my bed with a book in hand, trying to distract myself enough that I’d grow weary and fall asleep. Thus far, I’d had little luck, and I fully expected to have another sleepless night.
Tick.
I frowned and glanced at the window, as the sound of a rock falling from above, small or otherwise, was never not unnerving.
Tick.
Unease prickled down my spine. I hadn’t noticed any movements in the ground today – certainly not a shake of magnitude – but the tree was a sensitive structure, and even the slightest shift meant trouble.
Tick.
I went to the window, flinging it open and leaning out to look up right as a tiny rock hit me in the face. A rock that had come from below. I swore, ready to chastise the twins for one of their pranks, but it was neither Vincent nor Victoria standing beneath me. It was Pénélope.
I didn’t bother asking what she was doing here – her wide eyes and bedraggled appearance told me enough. Wrapping magic around her waist, I glanced around to make sure there was no one on the grounds, then lifted her up and into my room, taking her arms the moment she was inside.
She sank to the floor, dragging in gulp after gulp of air. Only then did I notice that she had no light, the press of her magic so faint that if I closed my eyes, I could well imagine that it was a half-blood sewer worker kneeling before me rather than a full-blooded aristocrat. I examined her for signs of injury, for bruises or blood, but there was nothing.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head once, then slumped forward, resting her head against the carpet. “My father…”
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” she gasped out. “Not… to… me.”
She was shaking, her hands icy in mine, and fear bit deep into my chest. It was almost human how fragile she was, and her life was spent surrounded by those who bordered on invincibility. Many who’d do her harm if they could. And I had no way to protect her.
She had no way to protect herself.
“Stay here,” I said, warming the room before I exited, running silently down the hallway to my father’s chambers. He was with the King, and there was no one to question me as I snatched up a bottle of brandy and a glass, hurrying back to my rooms.
Pénélope had regained some of her composure and moved to one of the chairs, though her elbow rested heavily on its arm. “Drink this.” Brandy sloshed onto my hands as I poured the glass, the liquid in t
he bottle trembling in my shaking grip.
The contents went down in one gulp, and she held out her hand for more. I filled her glass, then drank directly from the bottle myself, wishing I was human so that the drink might steady my nerves.
“My father hosted a gathering tonight,” she said. “A secret meeting with my grandmother, my cousins, Comtesse Báthory, Prince Roland, and others who I couldn’t identify. I spied on them.”
I sat at her feet, using the burn from the rest of the bottle of brandy to focus myself as I struggled to keep any form of reaction off my face.
“He thinks it’s Tristan leading the sympathizers,” she said, setting her empty cup aside, “and that you’re the one helping him. He’s going to attempt to raid a sympathizer meeting to catch you and then deliver you to the King to be charged with treason.”
“I see,” I said, because silence would have revealed more. But it was almost impossible to contain my shock that Angoulême’s suspicions ran so deep. For him to be involving others… that meant he was certain of our guilt and only needed undeniable proof. “That’s a bold accusation.”
Rising to my feet, I went to my desk and adjusted the series of miniatures one of the servants had moved while cleaning, putting them back in order. And I waited for her to ask if it was true. For her to finally prove that everything between us was false – her motivations not driven by affection, but by a desire to appease her father. Who was my enemy.
But she said nothing.
Which was somehow worse, because the tension grew and grew, the air in my room too hot and close, making it hard to breathe. One of us needed to say something, either her or me or… “I can’t imagine your father would react kindly to being spied on. Why would you take that sort of risk?”
I heard her swallow hard in the silence that followed, then she said, “I…”
A bead of sweat trickled down my back as I waited for her to answer, for her to explain herself. “Pénélope?”
But her eyes only grew desperate, mouth opening, then teeth clicking together as she shut it, unable to come up with an explanation because she was no better at this game of deception than I was myself. She’d taken no risk in spying on her father: he’d allowed it, then sent her off with this grand revelation of his suspicions in an attempt to elicit a reaction from me. Even me canceling the meeting would be a form of proof. And I hated this. Hated that she, of all people, would be the one to pull us down.
“Marc…”
I hadn’t heard her come up behind me and couldn’t keep from flinching as she took my hand, turning me to face her. She was close, the sodden bodice of her gown brushing against me, her hand resting against my shoulder, head tilted back to reveal the slender column of her neck. Her luminous eyes were fixed on me, and though she was as bedraggled as I’d ever seen her, she was beautiful.
Beguiling.
Being with her was all I’d ever wanted – the chance to love her, and be loved by her, and the Duke had taken that dream and twisted it into something hideous. A nightmare. Anger like nothing I’d ever known flooded through my veins, and I shoved her away from me. “I can’t do this.”
She stumbled, catching herself against the desk. “Marc, I…”
“Don’t.” I crossed the room, jerking the magic out of the lamps and casting the room into shadows even as I donned my cloak, pulling up my hood. I’d let her see me. Allowed myself to believe that I was something she’d wanted to look upon, and now all it felt like was mockery. “Leave.”
Her cheeks were damp. “Why are you acting like this?”
To say trolls couldn’t lie was the ultimate deception, because it promised what we’d give was the truth. Instead we delivered duplicity hidden behind twisted words and false smiles. Tears masquerading as heralds of grief when they had as little meaning as raindrops from the sky. “Because, unlike you, I can’t act anymore. I can’t pretend this is real and that you care when I know otherwise.”
“But I do care!”
“Not about me!” The words came out as a shout, and the walls shook.
“That’s not true.”
She came toward me, reaching, but I stumbled back as though she’d tried to strike me. “Just leave, Pénélope.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not like this.”
Because her life depended on what she could extract from me, which meant she’d burn whatever truth there was to our friendship to the ground if she had to. “Why?” I asked, the question coming out without thought. “Because your father will kill you if you come home empty-handed?”
Her lips parted in a barely audible gasp, and she took one step back.
“Drop the act, Pénélope,” I snarled, as angry with her now as I was with her father. “I know your father wants to put Roland on the throne. I know he’s using you to try to prove Tristan’s a sympathizer by manipulating me. I know–”
“Stop!” she shrieked, and launched herself at me, hand clamping down on my mouth. We went down in a tangled heap, her nails digging into my cheek as she repeated, “Stop, stop, don’t say it. Don’t tell me.”
I stared up at her, her panic not making sense until it did. There was only one way I could know she was a spy, only one way I could know about her father’s plans, and that was through her sister. And there was only one reason Anaïs would undermine her father: her loyalty was to Tristan and the revolution.
Pénélope’s hand fell away from my mouth, her forehead dropping to my chest. “I can’t go home. It was one thing when I only had my suspicions, but now that I have proof…”
Because accidentally or not, I’d revealed Anaïs’s true allegiance. And in doing so, undermined everything.
“I thought I was helping you,” she said. “Helping Anaïs. I believed that Trollus would be better off with any ruler other than Tristan. But it’s all an act, isn’t it? He’s a sympathizer. You all are.”
I knew I should put her off, try to recover, but I was tired of deceiving her. “Yes.”
The weight of the admission hung between us, and I held my breath, waiting.
“I told my father that you were using the human traders to bring in contraband,” she said. “That’s why he confiscated those drawings from the twins. Because of me.”
I winced. “Tristan… We arranged for you to make that discovery so that you’d have something of note to tell your father.”
Her jaw clenched and she gave an angry shake of her head. I didn’t blame her. “You gave him more than you intended. He knows they were printed on the same press as the sympathizer pamphlets.”
I gaped at her. “How?”
“The pages are marked with flaws unique to the press,” she said. “I imagine it’s only a matter of time before his agents determine which printer in Trianon you used. Who placed the order. And once they catch that individual, it won’t be long until they come for you.”
“Shit,” I muttered, my mind racing as to how I could mitigate this disaster.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said. “Did you really believe that I, of all people, would be against the sympathizer cause?”
I hesitated, then said, “That’s not why we didn’t tell you.”
Her eyes searched mine, then she shook her head sharply. “You kept it from me because you thought I was only a liability. Not worthy of being part of your grand schemes.”
She was furious, yet I couldn’t help but say, “We did it to protect you.”
“It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” Her hands balled into fists. “For how long have you all been deceiving me? How long have you been keeping me in the dark over who you really are?”
“You know who I am,” I protested. “It’s Tristan who–”
“How long, Marc?”
I didn’t want to answer, but I knew I owed her the truth. “Years.”
Her jaw trembled, then abruptly tightened, teeth clenched together. “Years?”
“Not long after Roland was born. I don’t know if you remember, but the
King made an example of one of the human traders. One that Tristan was especially fond of–”
“I remember,” she said, cutting me off. “The King burned him alive in the middle of the marketplace. Tristan tried to stop him, but…” She lifted a hand to her mouth, and I knew she was both seeing the atrocity and the moment when Tristan had decided to end his father and everyone like him. The moment he’d put on the mask of the contemptuous, half-blood-hating prince in order to protect a plot that, if it succeeded, would change Trollus forever.
“I would’ve helped,” she said, and the regret in her voice was like a knife to my gut. Her whole life had been spent with her father and grandmother whispering in her ear that she was useless – valueless – because of her affliction. Because her magic was weak. Because she didn’t have skills they considered of any use. Now she’d discovered that as much as her sister and her friends might care for her, we thought the same. Because those were the precise reasons we’d kept her in the dark about our plans. That our motivation was to keep her safe didn’t make it any better – we’d still considered her a liability because of her weaknesses. Which, given that we were fighting for an ideology arguing the exact opposite, made us the worst sort of hypocrites.
And we’d also been wrong.
None of us, not even Anaïs, had been brave enough to try to infiltrate one of Angoulême’s covert meetings, but Pénélope had done it. And now we not only knew the depth of his suspicions and the identity of some of his co-conspirators, but we also knew his first plan of attack. That was no small thing.
“We… I was so concerned for keeping you safe that I never stopped to think that doing so would result in more harm than good.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was wrong of us. Of me.”
She lifted her face, eyes searching mine for a heartbeat before her lids closed. “No. My finding out was the mistake. He has reason to question me. If I go home now, in this state, he’ll–”
“You don’t have to go,” I blurted out before I’d thought through what her staying meant. My mother was home and my father would be shortly, and if either of them caught me with Pénélope, they’d have her escorted back to her father in an instant. And I’d never hear the end of it. “Or I can track down Anaïs,” I offered. “Or have one of the maids help you clean up. Or–”
The Broken Ones Page 10