Stolen Songbird

by Danielle Jensen

  Crossing the room, he threw himself down on a chaise and pulled off his boots. I stood in silence as he sorted through a stack of books, opened one and stared at the first page longer than it would take to read. With a sigh, he tossed it back on the pile, and without looking at me even once, said, “Goodnight.” His troll-light winked out, leaving me standing in absolute blackness.

  One hand pressed against the wall, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness so I might make my way over to the bed, but it never happened. Swallowing hard, I rubbed my hands briskly over my arms, trying to ward off tears as much as the cold. He’ll hear you if you cry, I thought. Bad enough that he knows what I feel without giving him the satisfaction of hearing me break. But it was hard not to. Tristan’s melancholy magnified my own, and my weary and aching shoulders slumped beneath the burden.

  This was not how my marriage was supposed to happen. A drop of blood rose on my lip as I bit it in an attempt to force away visions of what might have been. Gran’s dress, my friends and family feasting on a warm summer’s day. A young man from a good family who loved me as fiercely as the sun shone at noon. My wedding night… A fat tear ran down my cheek before I could wipe it away. The older girls living in the Hollow often whispered about what passed between two people who’d just been wed, and I’d wanted those things. But I also knew enough to recognize that I’d been lucky tonight.

  Taking a couple of tentative steps in the direction of the bed, I gained confidence walking blind and promptly collided with a table. The furniture and I both went down with a thump, accompanied by the sound of smashing glass.

  “Stones and sky, girl!” Tristan snapped. “Have you not made things hard enough without destroying everything I own?”

  “I can’t see,” I shouted back at him, trying to climb to my feet and banging my head against another table in the process. “Ouch!”

  A ball of light appeared above me as I rubbed the growing lump on my skull. I was starting to get quite the collection.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I snapped, getting up.

  “Watch out for the…”

  I winced as a sharp pain lanced into my heel.

  “Glass,” Tristan finished, and sympathy filled his corner of my mind.

  I hopped on one leg towards the bed, making it halfway before warm ropes of power lifted me up and deposited me on the covers. “I didn’t need help,” I grumbled, pulling on my ankle in a vain attempt to examine the bottom of my foot.

  “Sorry.” He came closer. “I’d forgotten you had no light.”

  The way he spoke made me feel like I lacked something as fundamental as a heart or a brain.

  “Here.” He handed me the wineglass I’d brought in with me. As I touched the stem, the bowl lit up with bright silver light. “It will glow at your touch, and,” he took it again, “dim when set down.”

  I snatched the precious item from him like a greedy child.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and I flushed at my rudeness. “Let me have a look at your foot.”

  With one hand, he took hold of my ankle, his brow furrowing as he examined the shard embedded in my heel. I clutched my glowing wineglass and held my breath.

  “Ready?” He met my gaze.

  I gave a quick nod, hoping my feet didn’t smell.

  A sharp sting and the pink-tinged glass floated through the air to drop on the bedside table.

  “Don’t you ever do anything with your hands?” I asked. “I mean, without magic?”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapping the silk around my foot. “Sometimes.”

  I grew aware of the warmth of said hands on my ankle and jerked out of his grip. Avoiding his gaze, I pulled up the covers and carefully set my glass on the table, watching its light dim. He did not light another to replace it, and soon we were surrounded by darkness once again.

  “Cécile?”

  “Yes?”

  He hesitated, the sound of him swallowing loud against the silence. “In the morning, they’ll ask… They’ll want to know if we…”

  I listened to him breathing, and I waited.

  “I’ll need you to lie convincingly, or I’m afraid there will be consequences for both of us.”

  “If you’re so concerned about my abilities to tell tall tales, why don’t you do it?” I snapped.

  I felt his irritation mount. “Because I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” I grabbed hold of my wineglass so I could see him.

  “Because I can’t tell a lie. No troll can tell a lie.” He pointed to a cushion. “I couldn’t so much as claim this cushion was any color other than red.”

  My brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of all the things that you have discovered today, this is what you choose to disbelieve?” He passed a weary hand over his face. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. Lie about it. If you don’t, and my father discovers I have disobeyed him in this, we will both suffer for it.”

  “Afraid of your father?” I asked.

  “I’m not…” he started, then broke off, silent for several deafening moments. “I will take his punishment before I compromise my standards in this. Of that, you can rest assured.”

  I set my glass on the table, extinguishing the light. My cheeks burned and I pulled the covers up higher, hoping he couldn’t see in the dark. Knowing he would not willingly force himself upon me was a relief, but there was also a part of me stung by his words. I’d never been the girl the boys fought to dance with at festivals; that was my sister with her golden hair and sunny disposition. But neither had anyone been so blunt as to tell me I did not meet their standards. “Fine,” I finally mumbled.

  I listened to him walk slowly across the dark room and settle down on the chaise, shifting back and forth several times before he lay still. His emotions were as confusing as those swirling through me. I searched for my anger, but it had abandoned me when needed most. My legs tucked close to my stomach, I stared at the blackness where my wineglass stood. My precious source of light.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and sensed him relax and slowly drift off to sleep. Let him think I was grateful for him giving me light, granting me respite, or even for bandaging my foot. He could think anything he liked, but only I knew the true reason for the hope rising in my heart. I smiled into the darkness.

  He had given me the first thing I needed to escape.

  CHAPTER 10

  CéCILE

  “Where are all my clothes?”

  I jerked awake, knocking my elbow against the headboard. Any hopes of it all being a dream were dashed by the sight of Tristan, his arms full of colorful silk dresses, storming about the room. Both my maids and a grey-clad manservant stood in a row, their heads lowered. Covers tucked up around my shoulders, I watched Tristan dash into the closet and emerge with another armload of dresses. He threw them in a pile on the floor. “Why is my closet full of dresses?”

  “Are they mine?” I asked with interest.

  Silver eyes fixed on me. “Well, they certainly are not mine. Unless you imagine that I dress up in ladies’ clothing and prance about the palace when the mood strikes me?”

  A giggle slipped out of Élise, which she promptly smothered with a hand over her mouth.

  “You consider this a laughing matter?” Tristan glowered at the girl.

  “Sorry, my lord,” she said. “Your clothes are in the other closet.”

  “Why?”

  “Her Grace thought the larger closet more appropriate for her ladyship’s gowns, my lord.”

  “She did, did she?” He stormed back into the closet, returning with another armload. “That’s the last of them.”

  “You are wrinkling my dresses,” I said. “Zoé and Élise will waste their entire day pressing them.”

  “And then they can hang them somewhere else,” he snapped.

  “You’re creating an enormous amount of unnecess
ary work.”

  “It is the role of the aristocracy to create work,” he said, kicking the pile of gowns. “Necessary or otherwise. Without us, who knows what would happen to productivity.”

  I rolled my eyes and climbed out of bed. Catching the corner of a sheet, I set to making the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Tristan shouted.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Ladies do not make their own beds! It shows initiative, which is broadly considered most unladylike!”

  My temper rising, I whirled about. “Dear me,” I shouted. “I must have forgotten that my new purpose in life is to create work.” Jerking all the blankets off the bed, I threw them on the floor. The pillows followed next, and I proceeded to run around the room taking all the cushions off the chairs and tossing them about the room. The last I deliberately aimed at Tristan’s head. It froze midair. “You are making quite the mess of my room.”

  “Our room!” I shouted back.

  “What is going on in here?” The Queen strode into the room, but it was her sister who had spoken. The Queen turned, as though out of habit, so that her sister was facing us.

  “Explain to me why she must stay in my rooms,” Tristan demanded. “Surely we have the space to put her somewhere else?”

  “She is your wife, Tristan. Keeping her in here with you will help remind you of your duties.”

  “I am unlikely to forget them,” Tristan replied acidly. “And I would be willing to bet a great deal of gold that most men require only five, perhaps ten minutes maximum, to conduct their duties. Any longer is the business of romantics; and I dare say, I haven’t given you a reason to believe I have a single romantic bone in my body.”

  “She’ll stay until I say otherwise, young man,” the Duchesse barked, crossing her arms. “And you’ll quit acting like a spoiled brat and start acting like a man.”

  “I’ll act how I please!”

  I smiled as I watched him storm out of the room. Only a heartbeat later, I realized his satisfaction mirrored my own. Which made no sense at all. I took in the room, which looked much as if a hurricane had passed through. In hindsight, it occurred to me that throughout his apparent tantrum, I’d never felt a bit of anger from him. An act, then. But to what purpose?

  The Duchesse turned her attention to me. “Well? Is it done?”

  Lie.

  “Yes,” I mumbled, not having to fake my mortification.

  “Good. You humans are as fertile as rabbits – perhaps a child is the key.”

  Magic jerked my chin up. “They’ve predicted a large number of events in my day, girl,” she said. “They’ve never been wrong before. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I nodded, although I didn’t. Who were they? Wasn’t it the Duchesse who predicted the future?

  “Good. Now why don’t you get dressed and go into the city. Buy yourself something pretty.”

  “Is it safe, Your Grace?” Élise asked. “The riots…”

  “Perfectly safe,” the Duchesse snapped. “The King has decreed that anyone who harms her will suffer the most extreme of punishments. The law secures her well-being. Besides, presenting her as a princess will demonstrate our continued faith in the accuracy of the prophesy. Help keep the mob quiet for a time.”

  “I haven’t got any coin,” I mumbled. Nor did I think a new pair of shoes would compensate for the risk of a mob of angry trolls tearing me limb from limb. My gran always said it was the nature of people to resent those who had more than them. Parading me around in fancy clothes didn’t seem like the best way to earn me popularity.

  The Duchesse smiled. “You are a princess now, Cécile. You have unlimited credit everywhere in the city. One of the girls will show you the best shops.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Élise murmured. “I heard a shipment of fine fabrics arrived this morning – perhaps her ladyship would like a new gown made.”

  I glanced at the rainbow of dresses Tristan had scattered through the room. Why I’d need another was beyond me. Looking pretty would not keep me safe. A frown creased my brow, and I traced the silver tattoo lacing my fingers. At least I would be a well-dressed corpse.

  “An excellent idea.” The Duchesse snapped her fingers. “Now leave us alone for a moment.” The girls darted out of the room.

  “You’ve spirit in you, Cécile, just as I knew you would. No doubt you’ve put a substantial amount of thought towards how you might escape. Let me save you the effort – escape from Trollus is an impossibility. In my opinion, there are two ways this can go for you: either you curl up on the floor and wait to die, or you live each day for all it can give you. Little will be denied you here. Clothing, jewels, delicacies from the continent, are all yours for the taking.” She tilted her head. “An education, if you desire. Perhaps further training in the arts. You can become a great woman, Cécile. Or you can remain a prisoner. The choice is yours.”

  “I understand,” I said, and watched as the Queen glided from the room. I could have everything in the world but the one thing I wanted. The Duchesse was wrong about my having only two options. I wouldn’t lie down and die, but neither would I give up on obtaining my liberty. I would live each day and fight for what mattered most: my freedom.

  The city was marred with innumerable signs of the prior night’s riots. Everywhere I looked, there were grey-clad trolls collecting piles of shattered glass or loading chunks of broken rock into wagons that others pushed down the streets. Although the telltale troll-light hung over each troll’s head, they were all doing the work manually with brooms and shovels. “Wouldn’t it be faster to use magic?” I asked, clutching my glowing wineglass to my chest. No amount of cajoling on Élise’s part could have convinced me to leave it behind.

  Élise glanced at the workers. “Certainly. If they had enough power to manage it. Which they don’t.”

  “Oh,” I replied, trying not to stare at their downturned heads as we passed.

  Dust motes hung in the light of the multitude of lamps, and the small amount of sun that peered in through the hole in the rock above was made all the more faint by the haze. The trolls in the streets hurried about in twos and threes, expressions alert and wary. There were not many of them considering the size of the city, but to me, Trollus seemed overcrowded and stifling, as though each individual needed ten times his physical space. It was a corked bottle ready to blow at any moment – the witch’s curse must be powerful indeed to keep it all contained.

  The worst of it all, though, was the way the trolls reacted to my presence. I had expected dark looks, nasty comments, or even the odd rotten fruit tossed my direction. But after a few near collisions that required me to leap out of the way or risk being knocked down, I realized the trolls were content to pretend I did not exist. I was flanked by two hulking guardsmen whom Élise called Guillaume and Albert, but they ignored me as well, seemingly content to discuss what they’d eaten the prior evening and what they hoped would be served at tonight’s dinner hour. Even the dressmakers ignored me, directing all their questions to Élise. Which seemed to be going right to her head, because as time passed, she grew more and more bold and less deferential, until I started to doubt which of us was the servant.

  “They are acting as though it’s all my fault,” I grumbled as we exited the shop where yet another troll had refused to acknowledge my existence. “It isn’t as though I was the one who cursed you lot to an eternity stuck in a hole.”

  Élise made a face. “Don’t be ignorant – they are well aware of how powerless you are.”

  “How powerless you are, my lady,” I corrected, giving her a sweet smile.

  “You are very flippant for someone in your position, my lady,” she replied wryly. “I could hang you upside down from your ankles if I were so inclined.”

  “Be my guest. No one would notice, and my feet feel like raw meat in these blasted shoes.”

  “Oh, they’d notice,” she muttered. She began to speak very quietly, keeping an eye on our trai
ling guards, who seemed far more interested in the pink-frosted cakes they had purchased than in what we were saying. “The Montignys – the royal family,” she began, “they shocked everyone by bonding His Highness to you. Everyone expected them to lock you up in a closet when the bonding failed to break the curse, but instead they have you parading about in front of everyone as though you actually are a princess.” She chuckled softly. “Now they’re all waiting to see how the great houses react – whether they will support your existence or not.” She gestured discreetly at the passing trolls. “They aren’t ignoring you – they are merely waiting to see what side of the table those they are sworn to will sit at.”

  “When will that be?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at the women who had just walked by.

  “Soon,” Élise said. “Though you might find yourself wishing they had taken their time. Now enough questions. Put your head up. Walk like you belong here.”

  Ignoring my complaints, Élise paraded me up and down the streets and in and out of shops until my blisters popped. The only advantage the excursion provided was that it allowed me to quickly gain my bearings within the city. The labyrinth gate was on the northwest side of the river, as was the palace and what looked to be the homes of wealthier citizens. While it was too dark for me to see where the crest of the valley met the rock above, Élise explained that the rubble of destroyed homes had been cleared in centuries past, and any openings to the labyrinth sealed up with stone and mortar.

  “Why?” I asked, curious as to why they would isolate themselves any further than necessary.

  “To keep the sluag out,” she said. “But they are always trying to find ways into the city, and sometimes they break through. Their venom is deadly – even to one of us.”

  I shivered, remembering the massive white bulk of the monster rearing up in the dark.

  “You needn’t worry yourself… my lady. It is a rare occurrence, and every household keeps a steel sluag spear, just in case. There is one in the corner of His Highness’s room, if you are interested in examining one of them.”