Stolen Songbird

Page 23

My father leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “Intentions mean little when the results are the same. Your actions jeopardized the welfare of my heir and, as such, they cannot go unpunished.”
The Dowager Duchesse dropped to her knees. “Mercy, Your Majesty. I am but an old woman.”
My father snorted at her pitiful display and opened his mouth to say something, when Cécile interrupted. “Your Majesty, if I may?”
I winced, but my father only nodded, brow curling with curiosity. I wasn’t curious – I was nervous. Cécile had managed to keep control of this entire exchange through silence, but she clearly intended to have her say.
“I do not care to see any more violence – I have had my fill today,” she said, turning to Lessa who had remained kneeling on the floor this entire time. “If you insist on punishing the Lady Damia for her actions, I would prefer that it came in the form of compensation.”
My father rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his chin up. “I’m listening.”
“I have been led to believe that the laws prohibit the purchase of one’s own relations, regardless of whether they are related by blood or marriage. Is that correct?”
I grew very still. She was treading on dangerous territory.
“You are correct.”
“Illegal to purchase, but what about to own? Say, if one received the individual as a gift?”
A faint smile rose on my father’s lips. “A loophole, I believe. Is that what you want then?”
Cécile nodded.
My father rose to his feet. “There you have it Damia. You will give us Lessa.” He paused, tilting his head in thought. “Or you will give us your head. Your choice.”
The Dowager Duchesse made no attempt to hide her fury. She had gambled heavily and lost. To a human. I smiled inwardly.
“I’ll have her papers delivered in the morning,” she hissed, then stormed out of the room.
Lessa straightened, turning to watch her former mistress leave. She did not, I noticed, look particularly pleased with this turn of events. Cécile may have thought she was doing her a favor, but Lessa seemed to think otherwise.
My father flicked his fingers in Cécile’s direction. “You can go.” She hurried out, Marc and the twins trailing after her. I started to follow them, but my father held up his hand. “You stay.”
I waited silently as my father contemplated Lessa, but as to what he was thinking, I could not say. Sighing deeply, he raised a hand and a dark sphere encircled her, blocking off both sight and sound.
“I’ve always hated that manipulative old bat,” he muttered. “It was high time one of her plots turned back around to bite her on the ass. Although I didn’t expect Cécile to be the one doing the biting.”
I made a non-committal sound.
“I hate that whole bloody family,” he continued, pouring a glass of wine.
“Then why did you foster Roland with them?” The words were out before I could think.
A glass floated my direction and I snatched it out of the air, drinking deeply.
“You know why,” he said. “I didn’t want your aunt whispering in his ear like she did to you.”
“But why them?” I persisted. “Why a family that has been our enemy for centuries? Our most powerful enemy.”
“Ah.” He stared into the depths of his glass. “It was because they are our enemies.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted the girl Anaïs for you – she had all the makings of a good queen, and uniting the two of you would have done much to reduce tension between the houses. Angoulême was of an accord, with the exception of one aspect of the contract: he would not allow her to be bonded. And I could not risk such a union – there would be too much chance that she’d stab you in your sleep.”
I nodded slowly. Those of that family did not bond – they considered it a weakness. Anaïs’s mother had died mysteriously a few years ago, and there were whispers that her husband had murdered her. It was to his advantage – he had only two daughters, one of them now dead – and a new young wife gave him another chance at a son. Though in my opinion, anyone who married him was a fool.
“I gave them your brother to sweeten the pot, so to speak. The Duke agreed, and the contract was finalized.” He drank deeply. “Later, of course, we discovered that Anaïs and her sister were afflicted, and I broke off the engagement. She was unfit – something your cousin did a fine job of demonstrating when he made the mistake of bonding Pénélope.”
I was glad Marc was gone – he did not consider Pénélope a mistake.
“I did not know there was a contract,” I said.
“I know,” he said, regarding me with an unreadable expression. “Despite what you might think, there are a great many things you do not yet know.”
I shrugged. “Then enlighten me: why not take Roland back? It would be in your right.”
“And do what with him?” He drained his glass. “Your brother is a bloody menace, and the Duke’s family is the only one other than us with the mettle to control him. And I can’t very well bring Roland to the palace with Cécile wandering about. He’d slaughter her on sight. And that,” he inclined his head to me, “would be most unfortunate.”
That was an understatement.
“Anaïs knew about the contract,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “I’ve always been surprised she didn’t tell you.”
I wasn’t surprised – my friend did not suffer shame well. “Anaïs is loyal to me,” I said, “not to her father.”
“As you say,” my father replied, waving away the conversation. His eyes settled on the swirling black orb obscuring Lessa from view. “Go,” he said abruptly. “I need to deal with this.”
I quickly removed myself from his presence, sensing his mood was about to take a turn for the worse. Part of me wondered what he intended to say to Lessa – I had no fear he would harm her – but, oh, to be a fly on that wall. Having been hidden away under Damia’s wing most of her life, Lessa was something of an unknown commodity. I didn’t know anything about what she was like, only that she was powerful. And, I suspected, loyal to Angoulême.
Walking blindly through the corridors, I pushed the matter of Lessa to the back of my mind and turned instead to my father’s behavior. It was not like him to be forthcoming. And why, after all these years, bring up that I had been contracted to Anaïs? I chewed the inside of my lip as I considered what he would gain from telling me the information. Not, certainly, to provide more proof that the Duke was a deceptive bastard – that was obvious. This was to do with Anaïs – the fact she had known about the contract, but never told me. An attempt, then, to undercut my faith in her loyalty? To drive a wedge between us? It seemed counterproductive given that our friendship promised to do much in smoothing over the discord between our families.
Not friends, lovers.
“Ah,” I muttered, everything becoming clear. He must believe that it was at least partially Anaïs’s doing that I continually avoided or fought with Cécile. He was trying to drive me away from Anaïs and towards my human wife.
Pushing open a door, I trotted down a set of steps, then froze, realizing I stood at the entrance to the glass gardens. The sound of Cécile’s voice was thick in my ears, a fiercely defiant song of a warrior woman in some distant civilization. Apparently my meandering through the halls had had more purpose than I thought.
It was almost habit now for me to seek her out whenever I heard her singing – her voice was my only respite. The one moment in the day when I allowed myself to forget the growing pressures of my life. The one moment when I allowed myself to forget who I was.
Extinguishing my light, I started into the garden towards her voice, but not before pausing to break a single rose from the glass bushes lining the gates.
CHAPTER 18
CéCILE
There was only one way to lure Tristan into my company, and that was to sing. As often as I could, I would go out into the glass gardens and do battle with the thunder of the waterfall, my voice echoing through the cavernous hall of Trollus, knowing that no matter where Tristan was in the city or what he was doing, he would come to listen.
He never said anything to me in those moments, always keeping his distance. Sometimes he stood on the edge of the gardens or sat on one of the many benches, staring at his feet. If I walked while I sang, he’d trail after me, careful to keep a glass hedgerow between us. I always pretended not to see him, even though I was keenly aware of his presence. And even more keenly aware of the gap between us that he would not breach.
Today was no different. I sang. He listened. And when my voice grew too tired to carry on, he hesitated in the silence for only a heartbeat before departing. But today, I decided I could not leave it at that. Holding up skirts stained with Lessa’s blood, I strode through the winding pathways, taking the steps into the palace two at a time. Servants bowed and curtseyed as I passed, but I hardly noticed, my attention all for tracking Tristan’s progress through the palace. He was heading towards our rooms, but I knew he wouldn’t linger. He never did. It took every ounce of control I had not to run – running garnered attention, and I needed some time alone to speak with him.
Our rooms were dark and empty when I finally reached them. But I sensed he was here. Holding up my light, I walked from room to room, searching. Then I noticed one of the doors to the courtyard was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, I stepped outside and shone my light down the stairs. In the center of the space stood a black piano, my light gleaming off its shiny surface.
Closing the door behind me, I made my way down the stairs and over to the instrument. The wood felt strangely warm to my touch, but perhaps that was only because I spent my days surrounded by glass and stone. I pressed a finger against one key, and then another, listening to notes ring out. Then my eyes caught sight of a single glass rose resting against the music rack. Tentatively, I reached out to pick it up. At my touch, it blossomed with a warm pink glow.
“Can you play?”
I didn’t answer, but instead sat on the bench and began a quiet little piece I knew by heart. When the last note trailed off into the darkness, I rose and walked over to where Tristan sat in the dark. The only light was the one dangling from my wrist, but it was enough for me to see fatigue written in the shadows of his face.
“She set you up,” he said. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“Once I found who she was, I figured it out.”
Tristan tilted his head. “And if you had known from the beginning, what would you have done differently?”
I chewed my lip as I thought. Even if I had known it was a ploy, would I have been able to walk away from a woman being whipped? The blood was real, and so was the pain. “I would have done the same thing,” I admitted. “Which is probably pretty stupid.”
Tristan’s mouth quirked. “I’ve found that bravery and wise judgment rarely go hand-in-hand.”
“What would you have done?” I asked.
His smile faded. “I’d have walked away.”
“Oh.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
He rose, coming within an arm’s length. His coat was unbuttoned, and he seemed far more disheveled than usual. “But I’d have wanted to do what you did,” he said. “I suppose that makes you the brave one.”
“And you the smart one,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not so sure about that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve never seen Damia squirm. Ever. You made her confess everything without saying hardly a word. It was a clever bit of work. Reckless, mind you, but clever. I think my father was impressed.”
Pulling his hands out of his pockets, he took hold of my hand and pushed back my sleeve. A ball of light blossomed, and he examined the growing bruises surrounding the welt. “How fearless must you be to step in front of a blow, knowing you would have to live with the injury for days, weeks, even. That you could die?”
I remained quiet, sensing the question was not for me, but rather for Tristan himself.
Carefully, he pulled down my sleeve and then adjusted my cloak so that it covered my shoulders more fully. Then he stepped back. “I need to go.”
“Where?” I asked. It was past the dinner hour, and curfew would fall in another hour. Not that such things restricted him.
“Here and there,” he replied, stopping at the base of the stairs. “I like to walk.”
He would not tell me where, so I did not ask. What I did know was that Tristan paced the city throughout the days and into the nights, only resting when exhaustion pushed him to the brink of collapse. He walked, plagued by melancholy, anxiety, fear, and guilt. Except when I sang and he came to listen. I thought those were the only times he felt any peace.
“Tristan,” I said quickly, before he had the chance to move. “Who is Lessa?”
He exhaled softly and looked up at the blackness overhead. “Lessa is my half-sister. My father had an affair with a servant when he was a little older than I am now.” He hesitated. “Do not trust her – she is loyal to Angoulême.”
I pressed a hand against my throat, shocked. “But your father despises half-bloods.”
Tristan nodded slowly. “Perhaps he did not then. Perhaps Lessa’s mother was the exception. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps…” He shrugged one shoulder. “It is an event cloaked in a great deal of mystery.” He met my gaze. “Resist the temptation to simplify my father’s motivations. He is ruthless, but he is also complex and clever – one needs to be in order to rule this city for long.” He inclined his head to me. “Good night, Cécile.”