Then sunlight was burning in my eyes.
“Cécile!”
Tristan caught me against him, stumbling back. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?”
I knew logically his face was inches from mine, but he seemed far away, his voice distant. Like I was watching him search another girl for injuries, for the source of all the blood. My hands were sticky with it. Soaked in it.
“Anushka’s going to kill my mother tomorrow night.” I heard the words, but I couldn’t feel my lips forming them. “Roland’s going to kill your father. Angoulême has Élise. And Pierre…” I fell back into myself, shock receding and leaving a world of hurt in its wake. “Pierre is dead.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I buried my face in Tristan’s chest.
And I wept.
Forty-Six
Tristan
I watched Cécile ride somewhat ahead of me, her shoulders slumped beneath the bulk of my coat. What she’d told me seconds after I’d pulled her out had put my head in a spin, but she’d dissolved into hysterics seconds later, so I’d had to wait until I’d carried her off the rocks and calmed her down enough to extract more details. After she’d told me everything, she’d gone quiet. Numb.
And that made me wish for the tears to come back, because at least those were normal for her. I could wipe them away and know she’d be herself soon enough. But seeing her like this, her dull and empty eyes a reflection of what I felt in my head, made me afraid that she’d finally been pushed too far.
That fear had made me want to take her somewhere safe, and before I’d known what I was saying, I’d asked her which way to take to get to her family’s farm. Now we were on the road to Goshawk’s Hollow, and despite there being countless reasons we needed to be back in Trianon, I knew it was the correct decision. She needed time to recover.
And so did I.
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shove the pain of Pierre’s death from the forefront of my thoughts. I’d known him all my life, and while I’d never burdened him as a confidant, he’d been my friend. My mentor in matters that had nothing to do with politics. I remembered the first time I’d met him. My father had led me by the hand through the city, stopping in front of Pierre’s door and kneeling down to speak with me.
“Tristan, Pierre is the most intelligent and learned troll I know. I want you to listen to the things he says and to learn from him, do you understand?”
I blinked away the vision of my father’s face and shivered against the cold wind cutting through the thin cloth of my shirt. The Dowager Duchesse’s words troubled me deeply. Trump card. Trump card. The word repeated in my head, and I knew it could refer to only one thing: Anushka’s identity. Angoulême knew who she was, and once my father and I were dead, he intended to use the information to secure his power.
Grinding my teeth, I heeled my horse up alongside Cécile’s. She held her reins with one hand, the other curled loosely against her thigh. I took hold of her fingers, and they were cold even through the leather of my gloves. “You’re freezing.” Pulling my glove off with my teeth, I enclosed her hand in mine, trying to chase away the chill.
“Cécile, are you all right?”
It was a stupid question. I knew she wasn’t, but I needed her to say something. Anything.
She turned her head to look up at me. “Will they hurt her?”
Élise. It took a lot of effort not to look away. A year ago, I would’ve answered without hesitation that Angoulême wouldn’t dare cross my family by hurting one of ours. But so much had changed since then, and I strongly suspected that Élise had not escaped unscathed.
“My aunt will do what she can for Élise.”
Cécile pulled her hand out of my grip. “That isn’t an answer.”
“Élise knew the risk she was taking,” I said. “You didn’t force her to do anything.”
“Didn’t I?” She shoved her hand into the pocket of my coat. “It was my idea to go to Trollus. My decision to linger in the Duke’s home to eavesdrop when I could have walked away without trouble. If I had only left, she wouldn’t have needed to put herself in danger.” Her face tightened. “I should have listened to you when you told me it was too dangerous. If anything happens to her, it’s my fault.”
“That doesn’t mean it was a mistake. You gained valuable insight that we never would have known if you hadn’t made those choices.” I said the words knowing they sounded callous. Anaïs would have argued that the reward was well worth the risk. Marc would have said that the choices had been made and that we’d need to live with the consequences. My father would say that hard choices were part and parcel of being king.
But what did I think?
“I know that the last thing you ever want is for someone to be hurt,” I said. “I know that given the choice, you’d forfeit your life to save that of a friend. But you know what would have happened if you had interfered when they came for Pierre. If you hadn’t let Élise help you escape. If you’d sacrificed yourself for them, what of everyone else? You don’t have a thousand lives to live or give; and as much as you might hate to think it, fate and fortune and whatever other powers are at work have made it so that your life is more important.”
Catching hold of her reins, I pulled both horses to a halt. “A good leader, a good ruler, is willing to lay down her life to save one of her people, but is wise and strong enough to know that she cannot.”
Cécile met my gaze, blue eyes bright with anger. “You’re the leader. You’re the ruler. Not me.”
I let go of her reins. “Are you certain about that?”
The only answer I got was her digging her heels into her horse’s sides and taking off at a gallop. I gave my own mount a kick, and he was more than happy to take off after Cécile, leaving me with the sole responsibility of not falling off the side. We were through Goshawk’s Hollow almost before I realized we were in it, the few people outside giving us startled looks as we flew down the one street. Then we were back in the woods, the boughs of the trees bending beneath the weight of the snow, and the only sound the thud of hooves.
Abruptly, she slowed her horse and veered off into the woods. Dropping into a walk, she wove amongst the trees before stopping next to a snow bowl. “This is the last mark on the map from my spell.”
“How do you know?” I asked, glancing around at trees and wondering what distinguished this spot from any other.
“The map is in my mind.” Her eyes were still and unblinking. “The parchment with the markers was only a physical manifestation of the knowledge – I didn’t realize it at first, but I never really needed it.”
It was a hard thing to comprehend, but I didn’t ask her to explain any further. I wasn’t sure if she could.
“I think the body is my grandmother’s.”
Given that the body of Genevieve’s mother had never been found, it was a reasonable enough assertion. I glanced at the trees, feeling a sense of unease in knowing Anushka had murdered a woman in the very spot we stood. That one day it could be Cécile she pursued through the darkened woods.
“Why was she here?” Cécile muttered, more to herself than to me. “What possible reason could she have had to come to the farm when by all accounts, she detested my father’s very existence.”
It was a good question, but not one we’d ever have an answer to. Whatever her reason for venturing to the Hollow, Anushka had caught up with her before she could fulfill it.
Without another word, Cécile turned back to the road, and we trotted along in silence before she eventually said, “I haven’t had a chance to send word to them about you, so this will come as a bit of a surprise.” Eyes forward, she walked her horse down the lane toward a modest-sized home and a larger structure that I expected was the barn. Four dogs with substantially more stature than Souris charged us, barking and baying; and ahead, I saw an older man come out of the barn, hand shading his eyes as he watched our approach. In the whites and greys of winter, there was no missing Cécile’s hair.
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The door to the house swung open, and a blonde girl leaned out. She squinted at us for a minute, then went back inside, appearing again wearing a cloak and boots. An older woman followed, wiping her hands on the apron she wore.
This was Cécile’s family.
Obviously, I’d known we were going to see them, but it dawned on me now that the meeting might not go well. They knew what I was. They knew who I was. And they had every reason to hate me.
“Cécile!” The blonde girl barely waited until she was off her horse before throwing her arms around her sister. They rocked side to side in a strange sort of dance.
“We weren’t expecting you until the new year,” her father said, giving me a curious nod as I dismounted.
I nodded back, at a loss for what to say.
“It’s impromptu,” Cécile replied. Pulling off my coat, she handed it to me.
Josette’s eyes widened. “Is that blood? What happened?”
“Are you hurt?” Her father reached for her, but Cécile held up a hand. “I’m fine. It isn’t mine.” She hesitated. “Papa, this is my husband Tristan. We’ll only be here for the night – I need to be in Trianon tomorrow.” She thrust the reins in his direction. “Can you take care of Fleur? I need to get cleaned up.” Then with her sister’s arm around her, she all but bolted into the house.
Her father and I stared at each other, and I was quite certain I’d never felt so awkward in my entire life.
“You’re the troll,” he finally said. “The troll that stole my little girl and forced her into an unnatural union?”
I winced, twisting the leather of my reins back and forth. “Yes.” Trying to put the blame on my father seemed like the wrong thing to do.
“Am I to guess that the whole Isle is now crawling with you and yours?” he demanded.
I shook my head. “Only me.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s quite a story behind that.” He scowled. “What happened to her?”
“That’s complicated.”
Reaching forward, he grabbed me by the front of the shirt. “Complicated? After all you’ve done, you show up with my daughter – visibly upset and covered in blood – and tell me it’s complicated? You explain yourself now, boy, or you can get off my property.”
I stared at the grizzled farmer who had me by the shirt and realized why Cécile was the way she was. “I’ll tell you everything, Monsieur de Troyes,” I said. “If you’re willing to listen.”
Grudgingly, he nodded and let go of my shirt. “You can call me Louie – we don’t waste time on ceremony in these parts.” He glanced at my horse. “Good-looking animal you have there.”
“Christophe Girard selected him for me.” But not before first trying to convince me I should learn to ride on a pony.
“Aye? Well, Chris might not know much, but he knows horses.”
I led my horse into the stall Louie pointed at. “He has more to offer than people seem to give him credit for,” I said, examining the buckles holding my saddle on. “He’s loyal, which is a rare thing in my experience. He’s also been a good friend to Cécile and Sabine. And to me.”
Fleur was in the stall across the aisle, and I noticed Louie already had all of her tack removed and was leaning on the door watching me. “Won’t argue with you,” he said, scratching his greying head. “You know the first thing about caring for a horse?”
I shook my head.
He came out of the stall and over to me. “How old did you say you were?”
“Seventeen.”
“Have to say, I thought you would be older.” He shrugged. “Either way, you’re well past due to learn a few useful skills. Think you can talk and learn at the same time?”
I nodded, feeling suddenly desperate to prove to him I wasn’t useless.
“All right. Best you start from the beginning, then.”
With little more than an occasional grunt and the odd word, Cécile’s father showed me how to care for my horse while I talked. I didn’t start at the beginning of today, or the moment when Cécile arrived in Trollus. I started at my beginning, and I told him everything. Revealing so much about myself was entirely at odds with my nature, but I found the story slipping off my tongue as though it wanted to be told. Louie was Cécile’s father, and I needed him to know who I was, to prove to him as best I could that despite everything, I wasn’t entirely unworthy of his daughter.
We moved from the horses to the cows to the pigs, him asking the occasional question, but for the most part listening in attentive silence. By the time I finished, all the chores were complete and dusk had settled onto the land.
“So you say this witch intends to kill Genevieve tomorrow night?”
“It is a near certainty.” We were sitting on the front stoop of the house, and Louie was smoking a pipe, the smell of it both strange and comforting at the same time. “She’s been maintaining her immortality by killing her female descendants. Cécile believes she needs the link of the bloodline in order for the spell to work, and that the only time she can access enough power is when the solstice aligns with the full moon.”
Louie grunted in understanding, then blew a puff of smoke into the air. “And if she succeeds, then Cécile will be next?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
He nodded. “Now you say trolls and humans can…” Wincing, he puffed out a series of smoke rings.
I knew what he was getting at. “Around three-quarters of Trollus’s population has human blood running in their veins.”
He was quiet for a moment. “How well would this Anushka’s spell work if Cécile’s girl-children were half troll?”
He’d landed on a notion I hadn’t even considered. “Not well at all.”
“Then it would appear that no matter what you two decide to do, the witch’s days are numbered. Can’t say I entirely understand where your aunt gets her prophesies, but it would appear she was right.” Climbing to his feet, he knocked the embers out of his pipe. “I’ve a few last chores to finish up. Why don’t you head in and get washed up for dinner.”
Instead of going inside directly, I sat for a minute longer, taking in all that was around me. The glow of the sun fading behind the mountain peaks. The cold wind smelling of pine. The sounds of the animals in the barn. One of the dogs came up and sat beside me, brown eyes bright as she surveyed her domain. It was more than just a different life – it seemed like an entirely different world, and I allowed myself a moment to imagine what it would have been like to grow up here. To have a father like Louie. To have siblings who weren’t trying to kill me. To spend my days growing crops and raising animals rather than at politics and plotting. It seemed a very grand life, a perfect life, and it made me realize what Cécile was risking to help me.
Inside, I was greeted by the smell of wood smoke, cooking food, and Cécile’s little sister stirring a pot on the stove. “Put you to work, did he?”
“We had a great deal to discuss.” I tried scraping the mud off my boots, but it seemed like a lost cause, so I pulled them off and left them at the door.
She snorted and set the spoon aside. “You don’t say. Thirsty?”
“A bit.”
Josette went to a small cask sitting in the corner and returned with a mug of dark ale. “It’s this or water.”
“This is fine, thank you.” I expected her to go back to stirring, but she stood her ground, unabashedly looking at me from head to toe. Josette was quite a bit taller than Cécile, and blonde, but otherwise there was no mistaking that they were sisters.
“She’s upstairs with Gran, if you were wondering,” she said. “They sent me to finish dinner so they could talk.”
“How is she?”
“Upset. Scared.” Josette looked at our feet, then back up at me. “She cried for a long time.”
“She had reason to,” I said. “We lost a close friend today. And another is in grave danger.”
“She told us that.” Josette lifted her chin, and there was no mis
sing the judgment in her eyes. “Cécile’s a crybaby. Always has been. Weeps when she’s happy, sad, mad. Last time I saw her cry like this was when Fleur got stung by a bee and bucked her off. But she got back on. My sister always gets back on.”
It was a challenge if I’d ever heard one, and I sensed that if I said a thing against Cécile that Josette would spit in my face and stick a knife between my ribs.
“If crying made me half as brave as your sister, I’d fill my pockets with handkerchiefs,” I told her. “That she wears her heart on her sleeve is one of the things I love about her most.”
She eyed me suspiciously, then nodded. “All right. You can sit if you want. They won’t take kindly to interruptions, so it’s best you wait for them to come down.”
I pulled out one of the chairs surrounding the scarred kitchen table and sat.
“You don’t look much like I thought you would,” she said, going back to the stove. “Trolls are supposed to be big and ugly and stupid.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Cécile wouldn’t talk about you much, but she did say you were the handsomest boy she’d ever met. Of course I couldn’t really trust in that, because there isn’t much accounting for her taste.” Her blue eyes gleamed with amusement. “She kisses the pigs because she thinks they’re cute.”
“There is something endearing about the baby ones,” I said, thinking about the small pink creatures I’d seen in the barn.
Josette laughed wickedly. “I’m not talking about the piglets.”
She could be making up stories, but I sensed every word of it was true. “The good thing about setting your expectations low is that you will not often be disappointed.”
“Who said I’m not disappointed?” She tasted whatever was in the pot, frowned, then added a pinch of what looked like salt. “She also said you were magic, but the only magic I’ve seen you do is convince Papa to let you do my chores instead of me.”