The section was enormous. Row after row of volumes detailing the impact of iron, inbreeding, and confinement on my people, but as much as I was tempted to blame the human witch Anushka and her curse, my fingers drifting to the gold necklace at my throat told the truth. It was our own doing, our ancestors’ greed that had tied us to this world. All Anushka had done was make our world smaller.
“This isn’t one of my areas of focus,” Martin said, examining the shelves. “I’m afraid it never really captivated my attention.”
“Because you aren’t afflicted.” I immediately bit my tongue, because it was possible his was an affliction that was as hidden as my own. But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the case. There was a certain selfishness to interest: one cared about what affected oneself, and only the best of people cared for what lay beyond that sphere.
A frown furrowed his brow, but he didn’t answer, only selected a volume. “This is specific to your concern, my lady.”
Sweat rose on my palms. I knew I couldn’t be cured. But maybe, just maybe, the key to understanding my ailment, to surviving it, resided within these pages. But as I flipped the cover, only unmarked paper greeted my greedy gaze. Startled, I flipped from cover to cover, but there was nothing. “These are blank.”
“Pardon?” Martin snatched the volume out of my hands, staring at it in bewilderment. “How strange.” Setting it aside, he extracted several more volumes, and the prickle of agitated magic across my skin told me that it was more of the same. I stood frozen in place while the librarian tore into the shelves, swiftly tossing aside those specific to my affliction and turning to those more encyclopedic in nature, but everything to do with uncontrolled bleeding had been excised from the pages.
“Impossible,” Martin whispered, a book held loosely in one hand.
Except that it wasn’t. Every scrap of research the royal library possessed about my affliction had been purged. And I knew who was responsible.
My father.
And there was only one reason I could think of for him to do it. He wanted to eliminate any chance of me surviving my pregnancy. The worst part of it was, there might have been something here. Something within these pages that would have ensured that Marc, our child, and I would endure, and now it was gone.
“Who would have done this? And why? For what purpose?” Martin demanded, but I wasn’t really listening, my ears roaring with fury. “Please excuse me, I have to go,” I said, and I bolted to the front of the library.
And nearly collided with Marc’s mother.
“Pénélope,” she said, taking my arm. “You shouldn’t be out unaccompanied.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “I’m tired of hiding from him.”
“I know you are, dear, but today isn’t the day.”
Only then did I notice her agitation, her face turned toward the far side of the city as though her blind eyes saw more than just blackness. I tensed, realizing now that half my agitation was not just my own – it was Marc’s. Something was amiss. “What’s going on?”
The Comtesse didn’t answer. Or if she did, I didn’t hear it, because a heartbeat later, Trollus shuddered with a horrific boom. Stone blasted out from the Dregs only to come smashing down, screams and turmoil filling the air.
Next to me, Marc’s mother collapsed.
I managed to catch her, lowering her to the smooth white stone. “My lady? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“No,” she whispered. “Not yet. Please… not yet.”
Then she went still.
“No,” I pleaded, knowing in my heart that this was somehow my father’s doing. Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I screamed, “Help! Somebody help us!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marc
The ground shook, rock flying every which way, colliding with Tristan’s shield as he dragged me through the collapsing tunnel, out of the destroyed building, and into the streets. Streets that were filled with screams, none louder than my own.
“Let me go back,” I pleaded. “I need to help him.”
“If you go back now, then his sacrifice will have been for nothing.”
But it was my father. My father. My father.
Yet no matter how hard I struggled, Tristan wouldn’t let me go. We crouched in a side alley, him holding onto me with a death grip, eyes jerking from the rocky cavern above, to the entrance of the alley, to the windows of the ramshackle buildings, as though danger could come from any direction. And I stopped fighting him. Because I knew.
I knew.
Anaïs found us not long after, sprinting up the alley and flinging her arms around our shoulders. “Stones and sky, I thought he’d caught you. I thought you were both dead.”
“He did catch us,” I whispered.
Anaïs tensed, and Tristan explained what had happened, his words barely registering in my ears.
My father.
“I need to go back.” Climbing to my feet, I walked slowly down the alley, feeling Anaïs’s magic against me as she lifted the dust from my clothes and mended tears in the fabric. Making me appear innocent, though I was anything but.
They flanked me as I strode up the now empty streets, the half-bloods hiding from what they rightly believed was a quarrel between greater powers. The destroyed tavern lay ahead of us, shattered rocks and bits of furniture resting where they had fallen nearly a block away, the buildings next to it one-sided shells. I stared at the yawning opening that had been the cellar, at the ring of the King’s guards who stood around it. Several of them turned as they felt our approach, expressions grim.
“You don’t have to go in,” Tristan said, hand closing on my elbow.
“Yes, he does,” Anaïs responded, but I was already picking my way through the rubble, down the battered staircase to where my uncle, the King of Trollus, stood next to a still form draped in a black cloth. The area around them was untouched by the blast of magic, the podium I’d only recently stood on pristine and unmarked. Instinctively, I knew my father had protected the half-bloods around him from the blast, and judging from the lack of bodies, they’d escaped.
I realized then that I’d stopped in my tracks, my feet unwilling to take me closer. Until I saw the body’s face, it wouldn’t be real. My father wouldn’t be dead. My mother wouldn’t be…
Swallowing hard, I willed myself forward. The King silently watched me approach, then took a step back to give me space. I knelt down, and with one quick jerk, pulled back the cloth.
My father’s eyes stared up at me, sightless. Dead.
My stomach clenched, and I turned away just in time to heave my guts out onto the ground, my body feeling like it was trying to wrench itself apart.
Then I looked back.
My father was untouched by injury, only the faint coating of dust on his skin marking that he’d been in the blast at all. His arms lay limply by his sides, hands encased with black gloves. I didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to feel the lifelessness. But I needed to know.
With shaking hands, I peeled back the leather of his glove, praying to the stars, the fates, and the human gods for some small mercy.
His bonding marks were black as ink. Black as iron rot. Black as death.
I closed my eyes, trying to breathe, but it felt like a vice was wrapped around my chest. Mother.
Then, through the fog of pain, I felt a troll with power move off to my left. Not Tristan. Not Anaïs. Not the King.
Him.
I lunged, intent on ripping Angoulême apart, but the King’s hand closed on the fabric of my cloak, hauling me back. “Control him,” he snarled at Tristan.
My cousin only crossed his arms. “No.”
Not that his defiance mattered. The King’s magic clamped down on me, and he said, “If the Duke killed your father, he will be sentenced and executed for it. Not before. And not by you.”
Which meant there would be no justice, because Angoulême hadn’t killed my father. At least, not directly. My father had burned out his
magic, taking my mother along with him. All to protect me.
“You will answer for what happened here, Angoulême,” the King said, turning to the stairs. “And you’ll answer for it now.”
The Duke’s fist gripped the handle of his cane, eyes blank and unreadable. There was not so much as a speck of dust on him, the magic he perpetually coated himself in having protected him from the blast. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
He turned to follow the King, but not before pointing one finger at me. Quietly enough that only I heard, he said, “This is not where it ends, boy.”
I heard the threat.
This was not the last thing he’d take from me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pénélope
Shifting on my stool, I examined the canvas with a critical eye before reaching for my box of pigments to mix a paint the exact shade of blue of the sapphire earrings Marc’s mother had habitually worn. The very same pair that were now sitting on a piece of black velvet on the table to my left.
It needed to be perfect.
The Comtesse, seated at her piano, while the Comte looked on, entranced and deeply in love with his talented wife. It was so clear in my mind’s eye: a scene I’d seen often during my time in their home; but while replicating the image was no challenge, capturing the depth of the sentiment between the pair had thus far eluded me. And without it, the piece was worthless.
And I needed it to be perfect.
It had been two weeks since the pair had died. Two weeks since a blast of magic had torn apart a tavern in the Dregs, killing several half-bloods and leaving my father and his followers standing in a ruin of stone, Marc’s father dead at their feet. The King had questioned my father hard, but all he’d been able to accuse the Comte of was meeting with a group of half-bloods, which was no crime. Those half-bloods who hadn’t been killed had somehow managed to escape and, of course, none had come forward to explain the nature of the meeting.
Still, rumors had swirled that the Comte had been the leader of the sympathizer revolution and had sacrificed his life to protect the cause. But there was no proof, and as the days passed, the chatter and speculation diminished, the King seeming content to let the matter rest.
Marc had told me little about what had happened, and I hadn’t pressed him for the details, his haunted expression and sleepless nights telling me all I needed to know. His father had known what he and Tristan had been up to, and had sacrificed himself in order to protect them.
Stretching my back, I stared up at the skylights of the solar, eyeing the sun glowing yellow and bright, warmth radiating down upon me. Not the real sun, of course, but one of Marc’s creation, wrought with magic and talent. It illuminated the dozens of plants and flowers filling the room with their natural scent and earthiness. They were all grown in hothouses in Trianon, then brought to Trollus with great difficulty, but Marc insisted upon purchasing them. It made him feel better, I thought, to surround me with life, and I absently pressed a hand against the slight curve of my stomach, the presence of magic not my own the greatest comfort of all.
A flicker of motion caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to watch a petal fall from a lily to join the others on the tabletop. Lowering my brush, I stared at the plant, and the others, all slowly dying in the darkness of Trollus, the magic required to keep them alive and thriving lost to iron and mortality.
“An expensive habit.”
My hand twitched, a drop of paint falling to stain the silk of my skirts. My father stood just inside the doorway, gloved hand curved around a dying rose bloom. Though he’d shown me nothing but kindness and courtesy since my bonding, would not, I knew, lay a hand on me given I was bonded to the King’s nephew, trepidation still prickled along my skin. Only a fool would believe he was through with me yet.
Rising to my feet, I curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“Now, now. None of that.” Crossing the room, he took my elbow and pushed me gently down onto my stool before pulling another next to me and settling onto it, cane balanced across his knees. “Don’t strain yourself on my account, dearest.”
Leaning forward, he silently examined my canvas, a slight furrow forming in his brow. Though I’d never seen him create any art himself, he had a good eye for it, and my work had always been the lone aspect of my person for which he’d shown any paternal pride. “It’s good,” he finally said, “but…” The furrow deepened as he tried to pinpoint what was lacking in the portrait before shrugging and giving up. “It’s a shame.”
“Their deaths, you mean?” I picked at the paint stain with magic, carefully extracting tiny fragments from between the fibers of the silk.
“Hers.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, his focus still on my painting, and I took the opportunity to study him. Both Anaïs and I favored him over our mother with our high cheekbones, squared jaws, and straight noses, and I touched my bottom lip, annoyed that it possessed the same full curve as his did. The only sign of age was a touch of grey at his temples, which did nothing to mar his perfect troll beauty. It was the greatest lie, the greatest deceit. Like the bloom of a poisonous flower or the multihued bands on a venomous snake. Lovely. Deadly.
“She was extraordinarily talented,” he continued. “She caught the eye of many for that reason alone, and yet she chose him.”
“She loved him,” I said, careful to keep my emotions in check. “Besides, her death was your doing, Father.”
“I didn’t kill the Comte. He fell on his own proverbial sword and took her to the grave along with him.” Shifting on his stool, my father caught my gaze. “All that talent and grace snuffed out in an instant for love. I wonder if in those moments when her heart stuttered, but before her light went out, if she loved him still. Or if she hated him for stealing away her future.”
I did not respond. His meaning was clear enough. Hurtful enough.
“But it’s of no matter.”
I sincerely doubted that. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t a father visit his daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Though I see for myself that you are faring well – far better than anyone, including me, anticipated. Married life must suit you.”
“It does.” I wanted to get up, to move. To run, even. Because all his little comments were dovetailing toward something. And that something wouldn’t be good. “Does that disappoint you?”
The corner of his mouth quirked, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The truth is, Pénélope, that I came here today to tell you how very proud of you I am.”
My breath caught in my chest, all thoughts, all words, escaping me. Because the things he valued… I wanted no part of them.
“Everyone believes Anaïs is my golden child: powerful, beautiful, and ambitious. But she has not accomplished half of what you’ve done for this family. For me.”
No.
“Despite all the marks against you, here you sit: bonded to the young Comte who is nephew of the King, who is master of all that comes and goes from Trollus, who is cousin and confidant of the heir, and above all, who is the stalking horse for the true leader of the half-bloods’ revolution.”
Don’t react. Don’t say anything.
He patted my cheek. “I see you’ve finally learned to play the game, dearest. But it’s too late. His father’s sacrifice might have denied me proof, but I know Marc is heading those meetings, and I know that standing behind him in the shadows is Prince Tristan himself.”
Picking up my brush, I set to cleaning off the paint and storing my tools away. “Fascinating theories, Father. Yet for someone with such great certainty, you seem to be doing little about it.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Because you’re going to do it for me.”
My pulse roared in my ears, my heart threatening to tear out of my chest. “And what exactly is it that you believe I’m going to do for you?”
“You’re going to kill Marc Biron, Comte de Courville, for me.
”
The room faded in and out of focus, and I gripped the sides of my stool to keep from toppling over.
“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll even manage to live long enough to bring this delightful child into the world. But we all know you’ll never survive to raise it. The babe will kill you. And you, my beloved daughter, will kill him.” He cackled with undisguised mirth, and the jars of paint sitting on the table all cracked as my magic sought an outlet.
“Is that why you had the library purged?” I demanded, hoping the accusation would elicit some clue that there had been something there. Maybe not a cure, but something that would allow me to survive. Something I could hunt down now that I knew it existed. “Was there something in those pages that could help me?”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, along with something else. Fear. But it was gone in an instant. “There was nothing in those books that could cure you, Pénélope. There is nothing that can save you. Do you think I didn’t look?”
And he could not lie.
My hope shattered into a million pieces, tearing through my insides on the flood of my too-fast pulse. “You can’t know that.” They were weak words. A pathetic defense. And that, more than anything he’d said, made me lunge for him, the dagger in my pocket aimed at his throat.
But magic caught me and I hung suspended in the air, thrashing and struggling, until I finally tried to throw the blade at him in desperation. It only bounced off a shield of magic, clattering to the floor.
“Pénélope, Pénélope.”
I tried to scream, praying one of the servants would come even as I hoped that they’d stay hidden, because he wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.
“You are the poisoned cup. The knife in the dark. The pillow pressed against a sleeping man’s mouth.” The room trembled with his laughter, though his gaze was cold and dead as a snake’s. “You are the trump card that no one knew I had.”
My feet touched the ground, and I caught myself against the table as my ankle rolled.
The Broken Ones Page 19