Stolen Songbird
Page 17
Rounding a corner, I reached for the handle of yet another door. It was locked. Curious, I pulled out a hairpin and set to work on the complex mechanism. When it finally clicked open, I cautiously shone my light through the entrance before stepping inside and turning the handle lock behind me.
The room was dominated by a large table surrounded by a dozen chairs. Its surface was littered with books, paperweights, and a large abacus. I perused the titles as I circled round the table: The Cathedrals of Castile, Trianon’s Bridges, and The Great Palaces of the Sea of Sand. A black coat was tossed over the back of one of the chairs, and the white embroidered TdM on the cuff glimmered in my troll-light. “What have you been doing lurking in Marc’s basement?” I wondered aloud, settling myself in the chair. Several empty glasses and a plate of half eaten cucumber sandwiches sat on the table in front of me, but no clues as to why Tristan was reading books in the cold comfort of a wine cellar.
The handle of the door jiggled. I gasped and clambered out of the chair, diving behind a tea service trolley and extinguishing my light just as the door opened.
Tristan hurried into the room, with Marc, Victoria, Vincent, and Anaïs hot on his heels. I swore silently, certain he would notice my presence the second he walked in.
But he seemed oblivious. I could see him talking to the other trolls, but magic prevented any sound from reaching me. Which meant they had something to hide. Through stacks of teacups, I watched him wave his arms around, a wide grin stretching across his face as he spoke to his friends. I could feel his excitement as he rounded the table to where I had been sitting only seconds before. Leaning down, he pulled a lever on the bottom of the table, and a secret compartment popped open. He reached inside, extracted several large rolls of paper, and proceeded to spread them out on the table. I tried to stay calm so as not to draw his attention as he explained whatever it was he was showing them. Soon they all looked equally excited, except for Anaïs, who frowned and wagged a finger at Tristan. Tristan only shrugged.
A loud knock came at the door. Tristan quickly shoved the papers back in the secret compartment and slammed it shut. “Yes?” he said, his voice loud after the enforced silence.
A grey-clad servant hurried through the door. He was visibly shaken, wiping his sweating palms against his trousers. “My lord! Your brother, His Royal Highness, he…” he stammered.
“What about Roland?” Tristan snapped, good mood vanished.
“He’s in the city.”
Anaïs gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Doing what?” Tristan demanded.
“Hunting, my lord,” the servant croaked.
Tristan bolted to the door. “Marc, find Cécile,” he shouted over his shoulder. “It will be on your life if anything happens to her.”
Seconds later, I was alone in the dark once more. My chest felt tight and it was several long moments before I could relax enough to take a proper breath of air. I could feel the distance between Tristan and me growing as he moved towards the city. I hurried over to the table, and feeling along the lower edge, I popped the catch holding the secret compartment. Pulling out the rolled parchments, I quickly scanned the diagrams of columns and arches, and read through lists of materials and costs. None of it meant anything to me, but they had to be important if Tristan was hiding them.
The handle of the door shook.
“Drat!” I hissed. Slamming the compartment shut, I hid under the table.
The door opened and shut, and the faint glow of troll-light illuminated the room. I stared at the shoes coming across the floor. Far too small for either of the twins, and both Tristan and Marc wore boots. And they certainly didn’t belong to Anaïs. Who then?
Books thudded open and shut above me as the troll circled the table. I bit my lip as I watched a pale hand slip under the lip of the table, clearly looking for the catch to the compartment. Please don’t look down, I prayed, my neck swiveling to watch his progress.
The troll reached the chair with all the used dishes in front of it and paused.
Click.
The compartment popped open and I heard a sharp intake of the troll’s breath. “Damn you, Montigny!”
Angoulême’s voice. And I knew the source of his ire. There was nothing in the compartment because Tristan’s papers were clutched in my hot little hands.
Abruptly, he stormed towards the door, slamming it shut behind him.
I stayed frozen where I was for a long time, nervous he would come back. But eventually, I had to move. Marc was looking for me and I didn’t want him to find me here. I briefly debated putting the papers back where I found them, but decided against it, instead hiding them in my underclothes. The bustle of the dress would hide any suspicious lumps. I wanted another chance to look at the diagrams to try to puzzle out what they were, but more importantly, I felt to my core that it would be wrong to let Angoulême have them. There was a darkness to the troll – worse in its own way than that of the King, although I could not have said why.
My light on, I left the room, careful to lock it behind me. Then I made my way through the meandering hallway and up the stairs. Just when I thought I was beyond discovery, magic locked around my throat and slammed me against a wall.
“What is he planning?”
Angoulême stepped out of the shadows, his arms crossed. I dug my fingers into the magic wrapped around my neck, but it slipped around my hands like water. “Who?” I wheezed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One black eyebrow arched up. “For a human, you are a poor liar, my dear.” The magic around my throat loosened fractionally. “But I’ll humor you. What is Tristan planning?”
A hoarse laugh pushed through my lips. “How should I know? He doesn’t confide in me – he doesn’t even like me. After all, I’m human.”
Angoulême watched me with unblinking eyes, a snake: coldblooded and cruel. “We can help each other,” he said softly. “If you tell me what he plans, after I dispose of him, I promise not to stand in your way when you try to leave Trollus.” His head cocked slightly to one side. “I would even help you do so.”
Everything stilled. Not for a minute did I believe that he was offering my freedom out of the goodness of his heart. He was only doing it because he thought I could help him. But did that matter? If I helped him, I would be free. I could hand over Tristan’s papers and let Angoulême do the rest of the work. I could trust that he would do so – trolls were bound to keep their word.
“What do you mean by dispose?” I asked.
A smile slithered onto his face. “I think you know.”
My fingers curled against the sudden chill that racked me to the core. He’d kill Tristan.
“Your Grace. Your Highness.” Marc’s voice sliced through the tension, and the magic fell away from my throat.
“I’m surprised to find you here, given your ward is currently on a rampage through the city,” Marc said, examining a fingernail.
I could all but hear the sound of Angoulême’s teeth grinding together. “Your Highness,” he said, inclining his head. “Please do stay off the streets – I would hate to see anything happen to you.”
Marc waited until the Duke was around the corner before he said, “Did he hurt you?”
I shook my head.
Marc’s shoulders slumped. “Small mercies. Cécile, he’s a very dangerous man. You must stay away from him.”
“I didn’t exactly seek him out,” I muttered, prying my shoulders away from the wall. “He found me.”
Marc’s troll-light hung behind him, as it always did. Although I could not see his face in the shadows, I imagined his eyes narrowed.
“What did he want from you?” His voice shook with anger.
I kept silent. Anything I told Marc he was sure to tell Tristan, and I didn’t want to limit my options just yet.
“Do not trust him, Cécile,” Marc warned. “He holds no love for your kind.”
My kind…
My temper flared. “Oh, but I should trust you – you, who always hides in the shadows and refuses to let anyone look upon your face.”
“Is that what you want?” he hissed. “To look the monster in the eye? Is it easier for you to understand the danger when it comes from the mouth of something ugly and strange?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Marc.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he snapped. “You should be terrified of every last one of us.”
I shook my head. “Not you. You promised you’d never hurt me.”
A short bark of laughter filled the hallway. “You do not know how easy it is to get around words.” He turned away, pressing a pale skinned hand against the wall as though to balance himself. I frowned at the black lacework tattooing his skin. “I didn’t know you were bonded.”
In a blink of an eye, his hand disappeared into a pocket. “I’m not. She’s dead.”
My whole body jerked in surprise, and I wiped my hands against my skirts, horrified that I’d brought it up.
He turned back to me, face still shadowed. “What did Angoulême want?”
“He thinks Tristan is up to something,” I said slowly, considering just how much I wanted to reveal. “He wants me to help him find out what.”
“Don’t help him, Cécile.” I could hear the plea in his voice. I had bargaining power here, and I was damn well going to use it.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” I said. “Better yet, give me one good reason why I should side with Tristan at all.”
“Because it is in his best interest to keep you alive.”
“Why?” I asked. “What difference does it make to him? I didn’t break the curse – you would think he’d be happy to see me dead.”
Marc shook his head. “He is bonded to you. If you die, he dies.”
Realization slowly sunk in. “And if he dies?”
“Your heart may just stop. And if it doesn’t, you’ll do everything in your power to stop it yourself.”
“I see,” I whispered. If Angoulême killed Tristan, I would die. I closed my eyes, barely noticing as Marc steadied my arm. In my naiveté, I had nearly handed away my life. That was why the King had instituted a law forbidding anyone from harming me – not because Tristan could feel my pain, but because if I died, so did his son.
“But you’re alive.” I met Marc’s gaze. “Even though she died.”
“Only because stronger powers wouldn’t let me die.” Marc’s voice was grim. The light drifted around him, and in a rare moment, his twisted face was illuminated. But it held no horror for me now. “Don’t help him, Cécile. Stay out of the politics and trust that Tristan will keep you alive.”
I thought of the parchments tucked safely against my backside and of the excitement on Tristan’s face as he showed them to his friends. Thought about how he had saved Chris’s life and the words he had said to me in the garden. What side are you on, Tristan?
Hours later, long after I had drifted off to sleep surrounded by the sumptuous silks of Tristan’s bed – my bed now, it would seem – I snapped awake, panic-stricken. Not my panic, no, it was his. Tristan had discovered his papers were missing, I sensed it. In the blackness of the room, my eyes fixed on the drapes where I had undone the stitching and hidden the documents between heavy layers of fabric. I had done the work in the darkness, afraid that someone might be watching me through one of the hidden peepholes into the room. Years of needlework under my grandmother’s watchful eyes had allowed me to restitch the hem by feel alone. No one would guess they were there.
Lying back against the pillows, I tried to calm my pounding heart. I had the leverage I needed to confront Tristan tomorrow – to demand the truth. I just needed the courage to do it.
CHAPTER 14
CéCILE
Sleep eluded me the rest of the night and, in the wee hours, I rose and went in search of Tristan. I found him in the palace stable yard, still dressed in the finery he had worn the night before. Resting my elbows on the smooth stone railing of the balcony, I watched him from afar. He sat on a square of stone that may have once served as a mounting block, elbows resting on his knees. His face was still and drawn and dark shadows from lack of sleep lurked under his eyes. With one finger, he slowly traced the gold marks lacing his other hand.
I wanted to storm down to confront him, but my feet seemed frozen in place. I was scared of what he would say, how he would react. I was afraid of what it would mean for me to get involved with troll politics.
“Spying on me so that you have something to report back to your new friend?” Tristan’s voice floated up to me.
My fingers twitched against the railing. “No.”
I made my way down the steps. He didn’t look up, or even move, until I was standing in front of him. “I wanted to speak to you about something.” My voice shook, despite my best efforts.
“Then speak.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He frowned. “I’m waiting.”
“In private,” I managed to blurt out.
He looked around the empty yard. “There isn’t anyone here.”
I gritted my teeth against each other. “Please.”
“Fine.” He motioned for me to follow him through a pair of doors, which I shut firmly behind us. We were inside a set of stables, rows of pristine horse stalls stretching out in either direction. “A waste of space, don’t you think?” I gestured at the empty building.
The room was dominated by a large table surrounded by a dozen chairs. Its surface was littered with books, paperweights, and a large abacus. I perused the titles as I circled round the table: The Cathedrals of Castile, Trianon’s Bridges, and The Great Palaces of the Sea of Sand. A black coat was tossed over the back of one of the chairs, and the white embroidered TdM on the cuff glimmered in my troll-light. “What have you been doing lurking in Marc’s basement?” I wondered aloud, settling myself in the chair. Several empty glasses and a plate of half eaten cucumber sandwiches sat on the table in front of me, but no clues as to why Tristan was reading books in the cold comfort of a wine cellar.
The handle of the door jiggled. I gasped and clambered out of the chair, diving behind a tea service trolley and extinguishing my light just as the door opened.
Tristan hurried into the room, with Marc, Victoria, Vincent, and Anaïs hot on his heels. I swore silently, certain he would notice my presence the second he walked in.
But he seemed oblivious. I could see him talking to the other trolls, but magic prevented any sound from reaching me. Which meant they had something to hide. Through stacks of teacups, I watched him wave his arms around, a wide grin stretching across his face as he spoke to his friends. I could feel his excitement as he rounded the table to where I had been sitting only seconds before. Leaning down, he pulled a lever on the bottom of the table, and a secret compartment popped open. He reached inside, extracted several large rolls of paper, and proceeded to spread them out on the table. I tried to stay calm so as not to draw his attention as he explained whatever it was he was showing them. Soon they all looked equally excited, except for Anaïs, who frowned and wagged a finger at Tristan. Tristan only shrugged.
A loud knock came at the door. Tristan quickly shoved the papers back in the secret compartment and slammed it shut. “Yes?” he said, his voice loud after the enforced silence.
A grey-clad servant hurried through the door. He was visibly shaken, wiping his sweating palms against his trousers. “My lord! Your brother, His Royal Highness, he…” he stammered.
“What about Roland?” Tristan snapped, good mood vanished.
“He’s in the city.”
Anaïs gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Doing what?” Tristan demanded.
“Hunting, my lord,” the servant croaked.
Tristan bolted to the door. “Marc, find Cécile,” he shouted over his shoulder. “It will be on your life if anything happens to her.”
Seconds later, I was alone in the dark once more. My chest felt tight and it was several long moments before I could relax enough to take a proper breath of air. I could feel the distance between Tristan and me growing as he moved towards the city. I hurried over to the table, and feeling along the lower edge, I popped the catch holding the secret compartment. Pulling out the rolled parchments, I quickly scanned the diagrams of columns and arches, and read through lists of materials and costs. None of it meant anything to me, but they had to be important if Tristan was hiding them.
The handle of the door shook.
“Drat!” I hissed. Slamming the compartment shut, I hid under the table.
The door opened and shut, and the faint glow of troll-light illuminated the room. I stared at the shoes coming across the floor. Far too small for either of the twins, and both Tristan and Marc wore boots. And they certainly didn’t belong to Anaïs. Who then?
Books thudded open and shut above me as the troll circled the table. I bit my lip as I watched a pale hand slip under the lip of the table, clearly looking for the catch to the compartment. Please don’t look down, I prayed, my neck swiveling to watch his progress.
The troll reached the chair with all the used dishes in front of it and paused.
Click.
The compartment popped open and I heard a sharp intake of the troll’s breath. “Damn you, Montigny!”
Angoulême’s voice. And I knew the source of his ire. There was nothing in the compartment because Tristan’s papers were clutched in my hot little hands.
Abruptly, he stormed towards the door, slamming it shut behind him.
I stayed frozen where I was for a long time, nervous he would come back. But eventually, I had to move. Marc was looking for me and I didn’t want him to find me here. I briefly debated putting the papers back where I found them, but decided against it, instead hiding them in my underclothes. The bustle of the dress would hide any suspicious lumps. I wanted another chance to look at the diagrams to try to puzzle out what they were, but more importantly, I felt to my core that it would be wrong to let Angoulême have them. There was a darkness to the troll – worse in its own way than that of the King, although I could not have said why.
My light on, I left the room, careful to lock it behind me. Then I made my way through the meandering hallway and up the stairs. Just when I thought I was beyond discovery, magic locked around my throat and slammed me against a wall.
“What is he planning?”
Angoulême stepped out of the shadows, his arms crossed. I dug my fingers into the magic wrapped around my neck, but it slipped around my hands like water. “Who?” I wheezed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One black eyebrow arched up. “For a human, you are a poor liar, my dear.” The magic around my throat loosened fractionally. “But I’ll humor you. What is Tristan planning?”
A hoarse laugh pushed through my lips. “How should I know? He doesn’t confide in me – he doesn’t even like me. After all, I’m human.”
Angoulême watched me with unblinking eyes, a snake: coldblooded and cruel. “We can help each other,” he said softly. “If you tell me what he plans, after I dispose of him, I promise not to stand in your way when you try to leave Trollus.” His head cocked slightly to one side. “I would even help you do so.”
Everything stilled. Not for a minute did I believe that he was offering my freedom out of the goodness of his heart. He was only doing it because he thought I could help him. But did that matter? If I helped him, I would be free. I could hand over Tristan’s papers and let Angoulême do the rest of the work. I could trust that he would do so – trolls were bound to keep their word.
“What do you mean by dispose?” I asked.
A smile slithered onto his face. “I think you know.”
My fingers curled against the sudden chill that racked me to the core. He’d kill Tristan.
“Your Grace. Your Highness.” Marc’s voice sliced through the tension, and the magic fell away from my throat.
“I’m surprised to find you here, given your ward is currently on a rampage through the city,” Marc said, examining a fingernail.
I could all but hear the sound of Angoulême’s teeth grinding together. “Your Highness,” he said, inclining his head. “Please do stay off the streets – I would hate to see anything happen to you.”
Marc waited until the Duke was around the corner before he said, “Did he hurt you?”
I shook my head.
Marc’s shoulders slumped. “Small mercies. Cécile, he’s a very dangerous man. You must stay away from him.”
“I didn’t exactly seek him out,” I muttered, prying my shoulders away from the wall. “He found me.”
Marc’s troll-light hung behind him, as it always did. Although I could not see his face in the shadows, I imagined his eyes narrowed.
“What did he want from you?” His voice shook with anger.
I kept silent. Anything I told Marc he was sure to tell Tristan, and I didn’t want to limit my options just yet.
“Do not trust him, Cécile,” Marc warned. “He holds no love for your kind.”
My kind…
My temper flared. “Oh, but I should trust you – you, who always hides in the shadows and refuses to let anyone look upon your face.”
“Is that what you want?” he hissed. “To look the monster in the eye? Is it easier for you to understand the danger when it comes from the mouth of something ugly and strange?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Marc.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he snapped. “You should be terrified of every last one of us.”
I shook my head. “Not you. You promised you’d never hurt me.”
A short bark of laughter filled the hallway. “You do not know how easy it is to get around words.” He turned away, pressing a pale skinned hand against the wall as though to balance himself. I frowned at the black lacework tattooing his skin. “I didn’t know you were bonded.”
In a blink of an eye, his hand disappeared into a pocket. “I’m not. She’s dead.”
My whole body jerked in surprise, and I wiped my hands against my skirts, horrified that I’d brought it up.
He turned back to me, face still shadowed. “What did Angoulême want?”
“He thinks Tristan is up to something,” I said slowly, considering just how much I wanted to reveal. “He wants me to help him find out what.”
“Don’t help him, Cécile.” I could hear the plea in his voice. I had bargaining power here, and I was damn well going to use it.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” I said. “Better yet, give me one good reason why I should side with Tristan at all.”
“Because it is in his best interest to keep you alive.”
“Why?” I asked. “What difference does it make to him? I didn’t break the curse – you would think he’d be happy to see me dead.”
Marc shook his head. “He is bonded to you. If you die, he dies.”
Realization slowly sunk in. “And if he dies?”
“Your heart may just stop. And if it doesn’t, you’ll do everything in your power to stop it yourself.”
“I see,” I whispered. If Angoulême killed Tristan, I would die. I closed my eyes, barely noticing as Marc steadied my arm. In my naiveté, I had nearly handed away my life. That was why the King had instituted a law forbidding anyone from harming me – not because Tristan could feel my pain, but because if I died, so did his son.
“But you’re alive.” I met Marc’s gaze. “Even though she died.”
“Only because stronger powers wouldn’t let me die.” Marc’s voice was grim. The light drifted around him, and in a rare moment, his twisted face was illuminated. But it held no horror for me now. “Don’t help him, Cécile. Stay out of the politics and trust that Tristan will keep you alive.”
I thought of the parchments tucked safely against my backside and of the excitement on Tristan’s face as he showed them to his friends. Thought about how he had saved Chris’s life and the words he had said to me in the garden. What side are you on, Tristan?
Hours later, long after I had drifted off to sleep surrounded by the sumptuous silks of Tristan’s bed – my bed now, it would seem – I snapped awake, panic-stricken. Not my panic, no, it was his. Tristan had discovered his papers were missing, I sensed it. In the blackness of the room, my eyes fixed on the drapes where I had undone the stitching and hidden the documents between heavy layers of fabric. I had done the work in the darkness, afraid that someone might be watching me through one of the hidden peepholes into the room. Years of needlework under my grandmother’s watchful eyes had allowed me to restitch the hem by feel alone. No one would guess they were there.
Lying back against the pillows, I tried to calm my pounding heart. I had the leverage I needed to confront Tristan tomorrow – to demand the truth. I just needed the courage to do it.
CHAPTER 14
CéCILE
Sleep eluded me the rest of the night and, in the wee hours, I rose and went in search of Tristan. I found him in the palace stable yard, still dressed in the finery he had worn the night before. Resting my elbows on the smooth stone railing of the balcony, I watched him from afar. He sat on a square of stone that may have once served as a mounting block, elbows resting on his knees. His face was still and drawn and dark shadows from lack of sleep lurked under his eyes. With one finger, he slowly traced the gold marks lacing his other hand.
I wanted to storm down to confront him, but my feet seemed frozen in place. I was scared of what he would say, how he would react. I was afraid of what it would mean for me to get involved with troll politics.
“Spying on me so that you have something to report back to your new friend?” Tristan’s voice floated up to me.
My fingers twitched against the railing. “No.”
I made my way down the steps. He didn’t look up, or even move, until I was standing in front of him. “I wanted to speak to you about something.” My voice shook, despite my best efforts.
“Then speak.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He frowned. “I’m waiting.”
“In private,” I managed to blurt out.
He looked around the empty yard. “There isn’t anyone here.”
I gritted my teeth against each other. “Please.”
“Fine.” He motioned for me to follow him through a pair of doors, which I shut firmly behind us. We were inside a set of stables, rows of pristine horse stalls stretching out in either direction. “A waste of space, don’t you think?” I gestured at the empty building.
