ARC: Stolen Songbird

  I got to my feet and set about exploring my surroundings, Tristan’s light clinging to my fingers. I couldn’t kill the sluag or drive it off, but maybe I could hide from it long enough for Marc to find us.

  Careful not to wander too far from Tristan, I searched through the fallen rocks. I quickly found what I was looking for: a tight sliver of space opening into a small chamber beyond. It was a dead end. The sluag wouldn’t be able to sneak around behind me, but it also meant I would be trapped until the trolls found us. If they found us.

  Running back to Tristan, I bent down to check his breathing. I was still flooded with the feel of him, but it made me feel better to check. His chest rose and fell and I could feel a faint pulse at his throat.

  “Please don’t go,” I whispered to the light as I let go of it. Hooking my arms under his, I slowly dragged him in the direction of our hidey-hole. The light trailed after us.

  BAROOOM!

  It was closer now. Close enough that I could hear the swish-swish of its body sliding over the rocks. I had to hurry, but Tristan was both heavy and unwieldy.

  Swish-swish.

  Sweat dribbled down my back to join the filth soaking my dress. My heart hammered from terror and exertion, but with a final heave, I reached the mouth of the hole.

  “Come on, Cécile!” I urged myself on.

  Swish-swish.

  My narrow shoulders fit easily enough, but Tristan’s stuck and every muscle in my body screamed with the effort of turning him sideways and pulling him through.

  BAROOOM!

  It was nearly upon us. I pulled hard and we tumbled into the little chamber. I hurriedly dragged him to the far end and covered him with my cloak. Falling to my knees, I tucked the wet fabric around him and gently kissed his forehead. His breathing was ragged and though my own life was very much in jeopardy, my fear was for him. “Please don’t die,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me now, Tristan. Please, if you can hear me at all, fight this. Don’t let this be the end.” I pressed my mouth to his, feeling the softness of his lips beneath mine. “I love you,” I whispered. “I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m not supposed to, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

  BAROOOM! The sluag slammed up against the mouth of the hole and I screamed, my voice echoing against the rock. Spinning around, I watched in terror as the creature’s long stinger lashed into the chamber. It fell only an arm’s length short, but I kept myself between the stinger and Tristan, for all the good I’d do.

  The stinger whipped out again and again, always falling just short. The sluag shrieked in fury and I screamed back at it, angry and afraid.

  “Go away,” I shouted. “Get you gone, you filthy bugger!”

  Picking up a loose rock, I hurled it out through the crack and was rewarded with a wet thud. I threw another rock and another and when there were none left at hand, I screamed every insult and curse word I had ever heard at the creature. It tossed its bulk against the rocks and shot out its stinger, but it could not reach us.

  My supply of rocks and insults exhausted, I bent down to check on Tristan and noticed the fine layer of dust and bits of rock coating him and me both. I looked up nervously and watched a cloud of dust rain down every time the sluag slammed against the rock. They were mindless creatures. Bent on the sole purpose of catching its prey, it might pull the rocks down upon us all.

  Then over the racket the sluag was making, I heard a voice: “Tristan! Cécile!” It was Marc.

  “Here!” I screamed. “We’re in here!”

  “We’ve found them! Over here!” It was the sound of many voices and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were saved.

  The sluag retreated from the entrance at the sound of the approaching trolls, but there was no chance for it to escape. The sound of its dying screams were deafening as dozens of long steel spears pierced its body. On hands and knees, I watched it collapse into a writhing heap before growing still. Marc’s face appeared in the entrance to our hiding spot. “Cécile?”

  “Marc,” I croaked, my voice hoarse from yelling. “Tristan’s hurt.”

  His eyes flickered past me to Tristan’s still form and his face paled. Pushing his way in, Marc knelt next to the Prince. “What happened?”

  “The sluag stung him. We were running from it and then he…” A sob choked off the rest of my words.

  Marc leaned his head against the wall and I could see the sorrow written across his fractured face. “Then he’s dead.”

  “He isn’t!”

  Angry eyes turned on me. “He will be soon enough. No one survives sluag venom.”

  I cupped Tristan’s cheek and felt a whisper of breath against my hand. “You don’t know that.”

  Marc grasped my arm and shoved me back. “He’s dying because of you!”

  There was murder in his eyes and I shrank away from the closest thing I’d had to a friend in Trollus.

  “This is your fault, Cécile,” he hissed. “He would have done anything for you, and this is how you repay him!” Power shoved me backwards like two hands pushing against my chest. “Get away from him.”

  “You have no right to keep me from him,” I said. Immediately I knew I’d gone too far. Power pushed me out of the hole and I tripped, landing half on the body of the sluag. Marc came after me and I scrambled to my feet. He raised a hand to hit me, and I ducked my head under my arm and waited for the blow. It never came. I looked up and saw Marc standing frozen, his face twisted in fury. “I promised never to harm you,” he choked out. His eyes flicked to Vincent. “But you didn’t.”

  The big troll shook his head sadly. “If he lives, he won’t forgive us for hurting her,” he said. “And frankly, I couldn’t forgive myself.” Then he looked at me. “If he dies, her head won’t stay on her shoulders for long.”

  “Take her back to Trollus,” Marc snapped. He and several of the other trolls slid into the small chamber and moments later, they emerged with Tristan’s limp form. Marc looked over at Vincent. “Mind she doesn’t stab you in the back on the way.”

  I flinched, but said nothing.

  I had dropped Tristan’s ball of light when Marc pushed me, but it floated in my direction now. Grabbing hold of the magic, I held it up to my other hand and examined my tattoo. It was a dull grey now, but not black like those on Marc’s hand. And I could feel Tristan, faintly, almost like when he was sleeping. He was still alive. I saw Vincent looking at my marks as well. “He won’t die,” I said.

  Vincent nodded slowly. “For your sake, for all our sakes, I hope that is so.” Then, with his iron fist locked around my arm, we made our way back to Trollus.

  He left me alone with Zoé and Élise in the chambers where they had once prepared me for bonding. Neither spoke to me, but I could feel their anger and sorrow thick in the air. It suited my mood well.

  It took three tubs full of bathwater to get the sluag stench off me, and I think they did it not for my comfort, but for their own. As they scrubbed my skin raw, I watched the grey marks on my hand grow darker, less metallic, and the feeling of Tristan in my mind grew fainter by the minute. Tears drizzled out of my eyes, but the girls wiped them away as though they were mere condensation from the bath.

  I made no comment when they twisted my hair back into a severe knot or when they brought in a black silk mourning gown and laced the corset so tight I could barely breathe. They were acting like he was dead already, when I knew he wasn’t. When they’d finished with me, I stood in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at me appeared haggard, a decade older than I was. Her blue eyes were dull and swollen red from tears and the corners of her mouth turned down. I turned away from my reflection and resumed my vigil, eyes fixed on my hand.

  “You were supposed to be our salvation,” Élise said. “We did everything we could to help you, and this is how you repay us? By trying to escape?”

  I remained silent, refusing to look at her. There was nothing I could say.

  “I can’t decide if you’re happy or sad that he’s dead,” Zoé sa
id, and something inside me snapped.

  “He’s not dead!” I screamed, my hands balled into fists. “He’s not dead,” I repeated. Turning away from her, I fell to my knees and sobbed silently.

  I was still on the floor when the guards came, and their rough hands lifted me and dragged my uncooperative form through the palace and into the open air. I looked up only when I felt the mist from the river hit my face and saw thousands of trolls standing all around, their eyes fixed on me. It was eerily similar to my wedding day, except this time I stood alone. And in place of an altar, there stood a guillotine.

  Tristan’s father walked away from the cluster of noblemen, managing to carry himself in a stately manner despite his bulk. His eyes were puffy and red, but when he stopped in front of me, I saw that his cheeks were dry.

  He cleared his throat. “There is nothing to say other than I would kill you a thousand times for what you have done, were it possible.” I said nothing. “Because of you,” the King continued, “the house de Montigny is ended. We’ve ruled Trollus for nearly fourteen hundred years, and it is finished. Because of you!”

  Anger rose up inside me. He cared nothing for Tristan his son, only for Tristan the heir. His dismay was not for the loss of his child, but for the loss of power and glory. I rose up to my full height and glared at the King. “If that’s all you care about, then it’s a good thing you have two heirs!”

  “Roland isn’t Tristan!” the King screamed at me.

  “Kill her!” someone from the crowd shouted.

  “She’s a traitor!” It was the half-bloods who screamed this – accusing me not of treason against the king and crown, but against their leader and their cause.

  “I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  A grime-coated miner spat in my direction. “Liar,” he screamed. “Traitor! You killed him!”

  My cheeks burned with fury. “Tristan isn’t dead…” The word froze on my lips as a searing pain tore through me. I fell to my knees, retching, and heard the crowd moan, but it barely registered through the agony. It was as if my heart had been torn from my chest and all the rest of my body burned from its absence. I screamed and screamed, and then the pain fled. I was empty. There was nothing.

  “He is now,” the King whispered. “His death is written across you.”

  I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t speak. All I knew was that I could not live like this, with half of me missing. Raising my head, I stared up at the burning circle of light high above. The lone beam of sunlight that shone into Trollus. Then I leaned forward and lay my head in the guillotine, closed my eyes, and waited.

  One heartbeat. Two. Three.

  Life and emotion filled the void, the shock of its return nearly as great as its loss. My eyes snapped open. “Tristan,” I gasped.

  The guillotine clicked and the blade fell.

  CHAPTER 28

  CéCILE

  “Wait!”

  A sharp sting burned at the base of my neck, but all did not go black, as I had expected. For a long moment, I was certain that my severed head had decided to live on for a few extra torturous seconds; but it soon became clear that my neck was still in one piece. I could feel the razor sharp edge of the guillotine cutting into my flesh and the hot trickle of blood running down my shoulder. Something had stopped the blade just in time.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the King shouted.

  “Her hand, look at her hand. The darkness is fading.” It was Marc’s voice shouting and I smiled, already knowing in my heart what had happened. He, along with several others, approached the dais to inspect my fingers.

  “He’s alive,” I whispered, looking up at Marc. No one seemed inclined to move the blade and I was afraid if I moved much against the edge that I would do myself in.

  Marc gave a half-nod. “Someone run to the palace. We need to be certain.” He hesitated and then added, “Before we finish this.”

  “You’ll be lucky if I don’t take your head off for this interruption, Marc,” the King shouted, but there was relief in his voice.

  Marc turned. “If Tristan is still clinging to life, killing her will surely push him over the edge. He won’t survive the shock.”

  “Wait, wait!” This time it was a woman’s voice calling from a distance. “He’s alive. Tristan’s alive.” The Queen’s voice. The crowd parted, and she ran towards me with surprising speed, skirts pulled up to her knees. The blade rose, and a hand grabbed the back of my dress, pulling me down the steps and out of harm’s way.

  “Tristan’s alive, and you will leave that girl alone if you know what’s good for you, Thibault.” The tiny Duchesse was speaking now and shaking her tiny fist at the King. “Leave her be!”

  “Why should I?” the King said, his voice like ice.

  “Kill her and you doom us all.”

  The crowd slowly grew silent as her words passed in a wave through their ranks.

  “Kill her, and you lose the chance of ever seeing the light of day. Of ever regaining Trollus’s previous glory.”

  The King grew still. The crowd fell silent.

  “So be it,” he said. “She lives.” His eyes met mine, and he softly added, “For now.”

  A servant ran up. “Prince Tristan is asking for the lady Cécile.”

  “Then it is a good thing her head is still attached,” the Duchesse muttered. “Come with me, girl.”

  I nodded and stayed close to her arm as we walked back towards the palace, though it took every ounce of self-control to keep from running to Tristan. It would certainly have been easier if I’d hurried, because our stately pace only gave me time to think; and with thinking came doubt. What if I had imagined it all? Not the sluag and Tristan nearly dying – I knew I wasn’t delusional – but what about the emotions I’d felt from him in the moments before the sluag attacked? Had he really felt as strongly as I remembered, or were my feelings and desires coloring my memory?

  I could feel his anger. What if that was the reason he’d asked for me? Not to profess his love as I might wish, but to tell me that he hated me for what I’d done and that he wanted me gone? Exiled from Trollus and his side forever.

  We turned down the corridor leading to Tristan’s rooms and, ahead of us, the door flung open. Anaïs stalked out of the room and slammed it shut. Turning up the corridor, she froze when she saw the three of us blocking her way. I noted her streaked cosmetics and the handkerchief clutched in her hand, but all of that was quite secondary to the fury written across her face. There was murder in those kohl-rimmed eyes, and I was certain that if I’d encountered her alone, she’d have killed me where I stood.

  She dropped into a deep curtsey. “Your Graces. My lady.”

  “Anaïs.” The Queen inclined her head.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that His Highness is recovering quite remarkably.” Anaïs straightened, and I had to give her credit for regaining her composure so quickly. “By your leave.” She hesitated only a moment and then spun around and strode off in the opposite direction.

  “Wonderful news!” the Queen exclaimed, blissfully ignorant of the tension between Anaïs and me. It wasn’t lost on the Duchesse, though she said nothing.

  The three of us hurried into Tristan’s room, where he lay in the center of his bed, propped up on a pile of cushions. The frown furrowing his brow disappeared at the sight of us. His eyes locked on me and I felt relief course through him and me both. He wasn’t angry with me.

  “Did they harm you?” He tried to push himself up on the pillows, but his mother scurried over and pushed him back down. “You must rest, Tristan.” She set to fluffing the pillows and tucking the blankets tightly around him like a swaddled baby.

  He seemed annoyed at being fussed over, but he smiled at her anyway. “Thank you, Mother.”

  Then he looked at me, taking in my severe hairstyle, the black dress, and, I realized far too late, the blood that dripped from the cut on the back of my neck. I should have cleaned it up before com
ing. “I’m quite well,” I assured him. “Fit as a fiddle.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “You are not suited to deception, my lady.”

  The light Tristan had left with me when he thought he was dying chose that moment to zip over to the bed, flying in dizzying circles around its patient twin hovering over Tristan’s head. The result was a riot of light and shadows that caught everyone’s attention.

  “It stayed with you this whole time? It should have dissipated hours ago,” Tristan said, clearly amazed. In truth, I hadn’t even noticed.

  “It isn’t possible for a human to control troll magic,” the Duchesse said, tapping her chin with her index finger and watching the lights reflected in the mirror on the wall.

  “Oh, I don’t control it,” I said. “It’s here because it wants to be.”

  “Wants to be! Bah!” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

  Tristan didn’t seem to be paying any attention to us. “Stop that!” he said firmly to my light. It ignored him and continued to fly madly around the room like a disobedient child. “You there,” he said, pointing at it. “Come here.” With obvious reluctance, the light slowly drifted over and landed on his outstretched hand. “It’s a bit of my magic,” he said. “But there’s something changed about it.” He stared into the depths of the light. “It seems content to maintain its purpose.”

  “What purpose?” I asked, confused.

  “To light your path.” The glowing ball lifted off his hand and floated over to me.

  The Duchesse had a look of satisfaction on her face, but she made no comment.

  Tristan cleared his throat. “I’d like to speak to Cécile. Alone.”

  After the Queen left, I walked over to stand next to the bed. My fingers played nervously with the blanket, while Tristan silently scrutinized my appearance.