Some of you guys will already be familiar with STOLEN SONGBIRD, the first in the ‘Malediction Trilogy’ by Danielle L Jensen; others may not be for a number of reasons: the book has been in limited supply recently due to the fall of Strange Chemistry (Danielle’s former publisher) and previously marketed as Young Adult.
Thankfully for fans, the series has now been picked up by Angry Robot who are keen to push Danielle’s work to a wider market. I think it’s a good move. This is a book that will slot nicely alongside the books on the shelves of many of today’s older readers. At the same time though, there are elements that do take us back to childhood fairy tales, but with more depth: our protagonist is thrown into a city of human-hating trolls and forcibly married to their prince, for example.
We’re already reviewed the first book, so if Trolls, Politics, Curses, Romance, and Themes of Uprising are your thing then check out the first book. If you’ve already read it, then you’re in for a treat because our good friends at Angry Robot have kindly provided us with the full blurb and three chapter extract of the upcoming second book, HIDDEN HUNTRESS.
Sometimes, one must accomplish the impossible.
Beneath the mountain, the king’s reign of tyranny is absolute; the one troll with the capacity to challenge him is imprisoned for treason. Cécile has escaped the darkness of Trollus, but she learns all too quickly that she is not beyond the reach of the king’s power. Or his manipulation.
Recovered from her injuries, she now lives with her mother in Trianon and graces the opera stage every night. But by day she searches for the witch who has eluded the trolls for five hundred years. Whether she succeeds or fails, the costs to those she cares about will be high.
To find Anushka, she must delve into magic that is both dark and deadly. But the witch is a clever creature. And Cécile might not just be the hunter. She might also be the hunted…
Here’s the extract. Chapters 1-3 of Hidden Huntress:
CHAPTER 1
Cécile
My voice faded into silence, though the memory of it seemed to haunt the theatre as I slumped gracefully, trusting that Julian would catch me, however much he might not want to. The stage was smooth and cool against my cheek, a blessed relief against the heat of hundreds of bodies packed into one place. I tried to breathe shallowly, ignoring the stench of too much perfume and far too few baths as I feigned death. Julian’s voice replaced mine, and his lament echoed across my ears and through the theatre, but I only half-listened, my attention drifting away to fix on the all too real sorrow of another. One far out of reach.
The audience erupted into cheers. “Bravo!” someone shouted, and I almost smiled when a falling flower brushed against my cheek. The curtain hit the stage floor, and I reluctantly opened my eyes, the red velvet of the curtains pulling me back into an unwelcome reality.
“You seem distracted tonight,” Julian said, hauling me unceremoniously to my feet. “And about as emotive as my left boot. She won’t be best pleased, you know.”
“I know,” I muttered, smoothing my costume into place. “I had a late night.”
“Shocking.” Julian rolled his eyes. “It’s tiring work ingratiating yourself with every rich man and woman in the city.” He took my hand again, nodded at the crew, and we both plastered smiles on our faces as the curtain rose again. “Cécile! Cécile!” the audience shouted. Waving blindly, I blew a kiss to the sea of faces before dropping into a deep curtsey. We stepped back to let the rest of the cast take their bows before coming forward again. Julian dropped to one knee and kissed my gloved fingers to the roaring approval of the crowd, and then the curtain dropped for the final time.
The moment the fabric hit the stage floor, Julian jerked his hand away from mine and rose to his feet. “Funny how even at your worst, they still scream your name,” he said, his handsome face dark with anger. “They treat me as though I am one of your stage props.”
“You know that isn’t true,” I said. “You’ve legions of admirers. All the men are jealous, and all the women wish it was them in your arms.”
“Spare me your platitudes.”
I shrugged and turned my back on him, walking offstage. It was two months to the day since I had arrived in Trianon and nearly three since my dramatic exit from Trollus, and despite arriving with a plan I had thought was good, I was still no closer to finding Anushka. Julian’s jealousy was the least of my concerns.
Backstage was its usual state of organized chaos – only now that the performance was over, the wine was pouring more liberally. Half-dressed chorus girls preened at Julian, their overlapping words barely intelligible as they rained praise upon his performance. I was glad for it – he didn’t get the credit he deserved. Me they ignored, which was fine, because all I wanted was to be done with working for the night. Eyes on my dressing room, I wove through the performers until the sound of my name stopped me in my tracks.
“Cécile!”
Slowly, I turned on my heel and watched everyone scatter as my mother strode through the room. She kissed me hard on both cheeks and then pulled me into a tight embrace, her strong fingers digging painfully into the long livid scar where Gran had cut me open to repair my injury. “That was positively dreadful,” she hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Be thankful for small mercies that there was no one of taste in the audience tonight.”
“Of course not,” I whispered back. “Because if there had been, you would have been the one onstage.”
“Something you would be grateful for if you weren’t so ignorant.” She pushed away from me. “Wasn’t she brilliant tonight!” she announced to the room. “A natural talent. The world has never known such a voice.”
Everyone murmured in agreement, a few going so far as to clap their hands. My mother beamed at them. She might criticize me until she was blue in the face, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone else saying a thing against me.
“Yes indeed, well done, Cécile!” A man’s voice caught my attention, and looking around my mother, I saw the Marquis strolling across the room. He was a bland man, as remarkable and memorable as grey paint but for the fact he usually had my mother on his arm.
I dropped into a curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”
He waved me up, his eyes on the chorus girls. “Wonderful performance, my dear. If Genevieve hadn’t been sitting right next to me, I would have sworn it was her onstage.”
My mother’s face tightened and I felt mine blanch. “You are too kind.”
Everyone stood staring mutely at each other long enough for it to become uncomfortable.
“We’d best be off,” my mother finally said, her voice jarringly cheerful. “We’re late as it is. Cécile, darling, I won’t be home tonight, so don’t wait up.”
I nodded my head and watched the Marquis escort my mother out the back entrance. I wondered briefly whether he knew she was married to my father, and if he did, whether he cared. He’d been my mother’s patron for years, but I hadn’t known he existed until I came to Trianon. As to whether my family had been kept from that knowledge or my family had kept the knowledge from me, I couldn’t say. Sighing, I made my way to my dressing room, closing the door firmly behind me.
Sitting down on the stool in front of the mirror, I slowly peeled off my stage gloves and picked up a short lace pair that I habitually wore to cover my bonding marks. The silver of my tattoo shone in the candlelight, and my shoulders slumped.
How much torture could a person endure before breaking? A knot of continuous pain sat in the back of my mind – pain laced with wild fear and anger that never diminished, never seemed to rest. A constant reminder that Tristan suffered in Trollus so that I could be safe in Trianon. A constant reminder of my failure to help him.
“Cécile?”
I twisted around, instinctively covering my bonding marks with my other hand until I saw it was Sabine, and then I let my arms drop to my sides. Her brow furrowed when she saw my face, and she came the rest of the way inside, shutting the door behind her.
Despite her parents’ protestations, my oldest and dearest friend had insisted on coming to Trianon with me. She’d always been a talented seamstress and had proven to have a knack for hair and cosmetics, so I’d been able to convince the company to hire her as my dresser.
While I had been recovering, my family had told everyone in the Hollow that I’d gotten cold feet about moving to Trianon and fled to Courville on the southern tip of the Isle. But keeping my secret from Sabine had never been an option. After what she’d gone through during my disappearance, allowing her to believe that I’d let her endure all that hurt because of performance nerves would have been unforgivable.
“You weren’t all that bad,” she said, dipping a rag in some cold cream and setting to work removing my makeup before fastening my gold necklace back around my throat. “In fact, you weren’t bad at all. Just not your best. Who could be under the circumstances?”
I nodded, both of us aware that it wasn’t my mother’s words troubling me.
“And Genevieve, she’s being a right old witch to say otherwise.”
Apparently my mother’s whispered criticism had not gone unheard. “She wants the best for me,” I said, not knowing why I felt the urge to defend her. It was a childhood habit I couldn’t seem to break.
“You’d think that, you being her daughter and all, but…” Sabine hesitated, her brown eyes searching mine in our reflection. “Everyone knows she’s jealous of you – her star’s setting while yours is on the rise.” She smiled. “It looks better onstage when it’s you playing Julian’s lover. Genevieve is old enough to be his mother, and the audience, well, they’re not blind, you know?”
“She’s still better than I am.”
Her smile fell away. “Only because your passion has been stolen by what’s happening to him.”
She never said Tristan’s name.
“If you sang how you used to before…” Sabine huffed out a frustrated breath. “You worked so hard for this, Cécile, and I know you love it. It makes me angry knowing that you’re throwing your life away for the sake of some creature.”
I’d been so angry the first time she picked this argument; hackles up and claws out in defense of Tristan and my choices. But I’d come to see events from Sabine’s perspective. All that resonated with her was the worst of it, which made my decision to put aside everything to try to free my captors incomprehensible to her.
“It’s not only him I’m trying to help.” Names drifted through my mind. So many faces, and all of them relying on me. Tristan, Marc, Victoria, Vincent…
“Maybe not. But it’s him who’s changed you.”
There was something in her tone and the set of her jaw that made me turn from the mirror to face her.
“You might be hunting this woman for the sake of them, but you’ve stopped living your life because of him.” Sabine bent down and took my hands in hers. “It’s because you’re in love with him that you’ve lost your passion for singing, and I wish…” She broke off, eyes fixed on my hands.
I knew she wasn’t attacking, that she only wanted what was best for me, but I was sick of defending my choices. “I’m not going to stop loving him for the sake of improving the caliber of my performance,” I snapped, pulling my hands out of her grip, and a second later regretting my tone. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I wish you’d accept that I’m set on this path.”
“I know.” She rose to her feet. “I only wish there was more I could do to help you find happiness.”
Find happiness… Not find the witch. Sabine had been an integral part of my plan to find Anushka – her ability to ferret out gossip and information was second to none – but she’d been clear that she wasn’t happy about doing it.
“You do enough by listening.” I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. “And by keeping me in style.”
We stared at each other, keenly aware that the awkwardness between us was new and strange. Both of us longing for the days when it hadn’t existed.
“Come out with us tonight,” she said, the words spilling from her mouth in one last desperate plea. “Just this once, can’t you forget the trolls and be with us lowly humans? We’re going to have our fortunes told in Pigalle. One of the dancers heard from a subscriber that there’s a woman who can see your future in the palm of your hand.”
“I’ll not hand my hard-earned coins over to a charlatan,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. “But if she happens to have red hair and blue eyes and seems wise beyond her years, do let me know.”
If only it could be so easy…
I lingered in my dressing room so that everyone would have the chance to go out into the foyer or vacate the theatre. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain subscribers, and besides, I’d all but given up on finding Anushka on the arm of some wealthy nobleman out for a night at the opera. Or at parties. Or in private salons. All that behavior had earned me was legions of admirers and a reputation for stringing men along. I needed a new strategy, and I needed it soon.
Drawing up the hood of my cloak, I hurried out the back entrance of the theatre and down the steps.
“Took you long enough.”
I smiled at Chris as he materialized out of the shadows. He was dressed in his work clothes, boots caked thick with mud and manure. “No loitering,” I said, pointing at the much-ignored sign.
“I wasn’t loitering, I was waiting,” he retorted.
“So say all loiterers.” I jumped down the steps and fell into stride next to him. “You have anything?” While Sabine had focused on researching the histories of the women I’d sent her after, Chris had been hunting down whispers of magic with the tenacity of one of the Regent’s witch-hunters.
He nodded. Stepping into the shadows, he handed me a curved statue with a necklace of herbs twisted around its neck. “Let me guess,” I said. “Fertility charm.”
“Put it under our pillow and you are sure to give me many strong sons,” he said, his voice full of wry amusement rather than the anticipation it had held when we arrived in Trianon.
I held it for a moment, then shook my head. “Anything else?”
He handed me a bracelet of woven twigs. “She called it witch’s bane. It’s from a rowan tree. If you wear it, a witch won’t be able to cast magic your direction.”
I frowned at the strange item, and then shoved it in my pocket. What nonsense. “How much did it cost you?”
He told me a number, and I winced as I dug the coins out of my pocket. I spent more than half my wages on potions and bobbles, and so far, it had amounted to nothing more than a strange collection of knickknacks. The few legitimate witches we’d discovered had known nothing about a mysterious redheaded witch or curses, and all had refused my request for tutoring in the arts.
“You discover anything new?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No one who looks anything like her. No one with an unknown or questionable past. No one who’s been inexplicably on the social scene for five centuries.”
Chris sighed. “I’ll take you home.”
We strolled, the walkway drifting from light to dark as we passed in and out of the golden glow of the gas lamps. But when we reached the street that would take me home to my mother’s empty townhouse, I stopped. I needed a change. “Let’s go see if Fred is at the Parrot.”
Chris looked surprised, but didn’t argue as we continued down the street toward my brother’s favorite drinking establishment. Sidestepping a brawl out front, we pushed our way into the busy tavern. Almost everyone inside was a soldier of some sort – not the sort of place artists such as myself were normally found – but everyone knew I was Frédéric de Troyes’ little sister, and no one would bother me here.
“Cécile! Christophe!” Fred shouted when he caught sight of us. He released the barmaid he had his arm around long enough to order a round of beer and deposit the flagons in our hands. He resumed whatever tall tale he was telling the girl, then his eyes went back to me.
“Best I let you get back to work before the barkeep tosses me out,” he said to the girl, waiting for her to go back to serving drinks before adding, “You look terrible, Cécile. You should be at home in bed.”
I grimaced, knowing that home meant the Hollow, not our mother’s townhouse. He was worse than Sabine, because not only was he adamantly against my hunt for Anushka, he was against my being in Trianon at all. “Don’t start.”
He set his drink down on the bar with a clank, casting a black glare at a group of men who jostled against me as they passed. The tension radiating from him told me that he was looking for a reason to scrap. Any reason at all. He was angry all the time now. At my mother, at me, at the world.
“You’re not going to listen to a word I say anyhow,” he muttered. “Might as well go on and do what you do.”
Chris tugged on my elbow, drawing me towards a table at the back. “Fred only wants to protect you, Cécile,” he said. “He blames himself for what happened. For not being there for you.”
“I know.” His first reaction to hearing my story had been a vow to burn Trollus and all its inhabitants to the ground, and the verbal brawl between us when I’d told him my intention to do the exact opposite was probably heard three farms away. Not only did he not agree with my decision, he didn’t understand it. And that made Fred angry. But then again, it didn’t take much to set him off these days – and I knew that that had nothing to do with the trolls. Something had happened long before my disappearance. Something that had occurred when he’d first come to Trianon. Something that had to do with our mother. He hated her, and there were times I thought he believed I’d betrayed him by choosing to live and work with her in Trianon.
Sitting at the sticky table, I proceeded to drain my beer, hoping to wash away thoughts of my brother and everything else.
“Easy there,” Chris said, sipping his brew at a more measured pace. “I take it something has happened, and it isn’t Fred’s perpetual sour mood.”
“No.” I motioned for one of the girls to bring me another drink. “Nothing’s happened, and therein lies the problem.” I took several long swallows. “Just another day gone by where I’ve made no progress finding her. Another day gone by where Tristan suffers God knows what sort of tortures, while I sing on stage to crowds of admirers. I hate it.”
“It’s the only way you can afford to stay in Trianon. And besides, I thought you liked performing?”
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and nodded. “But I shouldn’t.”
“Cécile.” Chris reached across the table and tried to hold my mug down, but I jerked it out of his grasp and finished the contents. He grimaced. “You know that he doesn’t want you miserable every waking breath for his sake.”
“How would you know?” I asked, digging money out of my pocket to pay for another drink.
“We’ve tried everything,” he said, going with a different tactic. “For two months you’ve run in the circles you’d thought she’d occupy and not seen hide nor hair of her. You have lists and lists of women whose backgrounds you and Sabine have checked, which yielded nothing but gossip. I’ve lost count of how many witches, real or otherwise, that we’ve talked to. None of them would help us.”
“Most of them can’t.” During my recovery, I’d pressed my Gran into teaching me all she knew about magic. She’d taught me how to balance the elements, why certain plants had the effects they did, and how to time a spell casting at a moment of transition: sunrise and sunset, a full moon, and the solstices in order to maximize the amount of power drawn from the earth. She didn’t know a great deal – and nearly all of it was relating to healing injuries and curing sickness, but I’d gained enough knowledge to know magic when I saw it.
“My point is,” Chris continued, “that maybe you’ve done enough. Maybe it’s time for you to move on with your life.”
I set my empty mug down with a clatter, not bothering to keep the anger off my face. I expected this from Sabine, but not from Chris. For her, it was still half a fairytale, but he’d been to Trollus. He knew the stakes. “Are you actually suggesting I give up?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away. “He doesn’t even want you to break the curse. Maybe it would be better for everyone if you stopped hunting.”
“Better for humans, you mean,” I snapped, my words slurring together. “How can you be so selfish?”
Chris turned bright red. Hands gripping the edge of the table, he leaned toward me. “If you want to see selfish, go look in the mirror. I’m not the one willing to sell the whole world into slavery for the sake of a love affair!” He stormed away through the crowd of patrons and out of sight.
I stared blindly at my empty mug, ignoring the dampness of spilled beer and wine soaking into the sleeves of my dress. Was Chris right? Was I being selfish? Two months ago, I set out to Trianon to hunt down and kill Anushka so that the curse would be broken. There had been no doubt in my mind that I was doing the right thing, and that certainty had been unwavering.
Or had it?
I wanted Tristan freed, that I knew. And my friends. Marc, the twins, Pierre, and the Duchesse Sylvie. Zoé and Élise. All the half-bloods, really. I wanted them free of the curse. But the others? I thought about Angoulême, King Thibault, and especially about Tristan’s demon of a little brother, and a cold sweat broke across my brow. Them I would be well and truly content to keep locked up for eternity.
But that was the problem. If I released one, I released all, and the consequences would be on me. But so would the consequences of doing nothing.
Pain twisted in my chest, and I shoved my mug across the table. I missed him. Not only for reasons of the heart, but as an ally. Missed watching his formidable and tenacious intelligence at work – that mind of his that I so greatly admired. What I would not give for his ability to see to the heart of a puzzle.
The room spun as I looked around, making my stomach churn. I sucked in a deep breath to try to calm my senses and instantly regretted it. The stench of stale beer and sweat assaulted my nostrils and I gagged. “Bloody stones and sky.” Clambering to my feet, I pushed my way through the revelers, eyes fixed on the front door and fresh air.
I wasn’t going to make it.
I pushed harder, ignoring the complaints of those in my path. Reaching the door, I flung it open and staggered out into the cool air. Then I fell to my knees and retched up three flagons of beer into the gutter.
“I must confess,” a voice said from behind me. “This wasn’t precisely the posture I expected to find you in.”
Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I looked over my shoulder. A cloaked man stood a few paces behind me, face shadowed by his hood. “What do you want?”
“Only to deliver a message.” His mouth widened into a smile. “To her Royal Highness, Princess Cécile de Montigny.”
—
CHAPTER 2
Cécile
I rose unsteadily to my feet, the lace of my gloves catching on the brick wall as I grasped it for support. “Who are you?”
“A messenger.”
“From who?” I asked, though I already knew.
“From his Majesty, King Thibault.” The man inclined his head. “He sends his warmest and most heartfelt greetings to his absent daughter-in-law. Trollus hasn’t been the same since your hasty departure.”
“Are you here to kill me?” Was this the moment of reckoning?
The messenger laughed. “Kill you? Certainly not. If I’d been here to kill you, you would already be dead. I’m not one to delay the inevitable.”
“Then why?” I asked, feeling not at all reassured. “And how is it that you can speak of them at all?”
“His Majesty would like…” he started to say, then Chris burst out the front door of the bar. “Cécile” he called, looking around wildly. His eyes fixed on me and the messenger. “Hey!” he shouted. “Leave her alone!”
He started to run toward us, but I held up a warning hand. “He’s a messenger from the King.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “What does he want?”
The messenger eyed Chris like he’d expected him, his acceptance of Chris’s presence making me uneasy, because it meant he knew who my friend was. “His Majesty would like to meet with Cécile.”
“No!” Chris burst out, almost drowning out my question, “When?”
He smiled. “Tonight.”
“Absolutely not,” Chris said. “There is no bloody way I’m letting you go back to Trollus.”
“Only to the mouth of the River Road,” the messenger clarified. “The gates to Trollus remain closed to humans.”
We’d known that. Although Chris’s father, Jérôme, was still bound by his oaths and unable to speak about Trollus, he’d enough practice working around his oaths to explain that trade was now conducted at the mouth of the river, and only by the King’s agents. The change effectively cut off our one source of news about what was going on inside the city.
Chris shook his head. “Still too close.”
“It isn’t your decision,” I said, my mind racing. What did the King want? Would Tristan be there? Would I get to see him? Even the chance was enough to make up my mind. “I’ll go.”
“You can’t,” Chris hissed. “Tristan warned you never to come back. They’ll kill you!”
I slowly shook my head. “No. If the King wanted me dead, I would be. He wants something else.” And I was willing to bet I knew exactly what it was.
The messenger escorted us out of the city and into the countryside where horses waited tethered in the trees. Despite the hour, the guards at the gates opened them for us without question, no doubt motivated by gold mined in the depths of Trollus.
We moved at a steady pace, our path lit by the moon as it drifted out from behind dark patches of cloud. It was a good night for casting spells, the round silver disk in the sky magnifying the amount of power a witch could tap. Not that it would do me any good against the trolls.
It was the darkest hour of the night by the time we cleared the trees and came into sight of the bridge spanning the rock fall. Our escort did not follow us as we dismounted and slowly picked our way down to the water.
“What do you think they want?” Chris asked under his breath, holding my arm as I scrambled over some rocks. The tide was retreating, but it was still high enough that there was only a dozen feet of sand between the fallen boulders and the gentle waves. The stench of sewers was strong, the city releasing refuse only when the tide was high enough to wash away the evidence.
“I think they want out.” Ahead, water poured out from under an overhang, the river carving a path through the sand down to where it met the ocean. Beneath that overhang was the entrance to Trollus, and further in, a single ball of light hovered, waiting. A reminder that here lay the gateway between worlds, the divide between reality and fantasy. A dream or, depending on who waited, a nightmare. Shoving my torch into the sand, I motioned for Chris to do the same, and then we cautiously made our way closer.
A small troll child sat cross-legged in the middle of the road. He looked up at our approach, revealing a younger version of Tristan. Except for the curve of his lips… those reminded me of his half-sister, Lessa. The face of angel, but the mind of a monster.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” I said, stopping a healthy distance from the barrier and dropping into a deep curtsey. “Bow,” I hissed under my breath.
Prince Roland de Montigny cocked his head and eyed us as though we were insects. “Good evening, Cécile.”
Why was Roland here? Where was the King?
“It’s hard to see you there, standing in the dark,” he said. “Come closer.”
I licked my parched lips. The barrier kept him caged, but I didn’t want to go any nearer to the monster who’d nearly taken my life. Roland got to his feet. “Come closer,” he said. “I want to look at you.”
“Stay here,” I murmured to Chris and, against all my instincts, walked toward the barrier. My heart raced and sweat trickled down my back. He was just a child, but I was utterly terrified of him. More so than even the King or Angoulême, because at least they were sane. No matter how calm and civilized he was pretending to be, the thing standing before me was not. He was mad, unpredictable, treacherous, and very, very dangerous.
“Closer,” he crooned. “Closer.”
My boots scraped along the ground as I inched forward, not certain precisely where the barrier lay. Abruptly, I felt the air thicken and I recoiled back a pace, heart in my throat. And like a snake whose prey has moved beyond reach, his little form relaxed, no longer poised to strike. He’d wanted me to come within reach so that he could finish what he started that fateful day in the Dregs.
I held up my hand. “You can see well enough from there.”
Roland ignored my hand and my words, but his lips pulled back, revealing little straight white teeth. “Scared?”
Terrified.
“Where is your brother?” I asked. “Where is Tristan?”
Roland’s grin intensified. “They dug a special hole for him in prison.” He giggled, the sound of it high-pitched, childish, and horrifying. “He doesn’t get out much.”
He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the apparent humor was too much for him and his giggles turned into shrieks of laughter that echoed through the tunnel. I took a step back and nearly collided with Chris, who’d worked his way closer during the exchange. His face was pale. Though I’d told him about Roland, nothing could have prepared him for such a creature.
I turned back to Roland. “You find it amusing that your elder brother and heir to the throne is in prison?”
The boy’s laughter cut off. “Tristan isn’t heir any longer. I am.”
I shook my head, not so much to deny he was telling the truth, but more at the sheer horror of the devil in front of me one day ruling the kingdom. Either way, my denial incensed him.
“I will be King!” he screamed, and flung himself at me. I leapt back, but my heel snagged on my dress and I toppled to the ground. Chris’s hands caught my arms and heaved me far out of reach, but not out of sight of Roland throwing himself over and over against the barrier, his fists splitting open and healing in an instant, his blood splattering the magic that caged him and rendering it visible. The rocks shook and trembled as his power hammered against the curse, muffling his screams. But nothing could spare us the feral rage written across his face – an expression void of any form of sanity.
“Heaven help us,” Chris whispered, our hands locked together as we watched.
The hammering stopped. Roland’s face smoothed into composure, and turning, he bowed low to the troll-light coming down the road. “Father.”
The King walked into view. “You’re making a great deal of noise, boy.”
Roland scowled. “She said Tristan was heir, not me.”
“Did she now?” The King looked through the blood-splattered barrier and caught my eye. “Humans are liars, Roland. You know that. Now go back to the city. The Duke is waiting for you.”
An answer that was no answer. There was hope for Tristan yet.
Roland shot me one last triumphant look, then sped off into the darkness.
“What do you want?” I asked, climbing to my feet. “Why did you have me brought here?”
“Oh, I think you know why,” the King replied. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood off the barrier. He watched us with interest, but said nothing. I stared back until I could stand it no more. “Where is Tristan? I want to see him.”
His chuckle drifted around me. “You’d make a poor politician, Cécile. You’re far too honest about your desires.”
“I thought all humans were liars?”
He shrugged. “True, but you are honest in spirit, which is more than I can say for myself. Or any troll, really.” His orb of light brightened until the tunnel shone like day. “One wants what one cannot have. And when one cannot lie, the ability to deceive becomes a far more meaningful talent. Something to be revered. But all this philosophizing is something better left to another day. I have what you want; and you, my dear, I believe to be capable of delivering what I want. What I propose is an exchange.”
I shook my head rapidly. “I am not so stupid as to think it would be that simple, Thibault. Nor am I so selfish as to consider releasing you upon the world for the sake of one life.”
Which was a lie. I considered it every waking minute.
The King tilted his head and nodded slowly. “Tell me, Cécile, what exactly is it about my release that terrifies you so?”
“Everything.” My voice sounded high-pitched and strange. “You’re a cruel, heartless tyrant. I’ve seen the way you rule – I know all about your laws. If I let you free, you’ll slaughter every last one of us.”
“Don’t be foolish,” the King interrupted. “The last thing I intend is to wipe out humanity. I need your kind. Do you expect the Duke d’Angoulême to pick up the plow to work the field? Or your dear friend, Marc, the Comte de Courville, to lay paving stones day in and out?” He waved a hand at me as though my fears were utter madness. “Do not stand there and preach to me that the Regent of Trianon does not have laws, or that his aristocracy is any less dismissive of their commoners than we are of ours.”
He pointed a finger at me. “You call me a tyrant, but I can say that there isn’t one individual in Trollus who goes hungry or doesn’t have a roof over his head. Every last one of them is educated and employed. Can your regent claim as much?”
I bit my lip. “What about freedom? The Regent allows no slavery on the Isle.”
The King made a face. “Why don’t you go ask those starving in the Pigalle quarter how much their freedom is worth. Or those freezing to death in ditches along country roads.” He rested a hand against the barrier. “You would be exchanging one aristocracy for another. Those such as your father would still raise pigs and sell them at market. Your mother would still sing onstage for those who could afford a ticket. For most, very little about their lives would change.” He sighed deeply. “How much are you willing to sacrifice for your ungrounded fears?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Chris said from behind me. “He’s only acting in his own interests.”
“And you aren’t, Christophe Girard?” The King spoke to Chris, but his gaze remained fixed on me. Gauging my reaction. “Don’t tell me,” he continued, “that you have not considered how you might benefit from keeping Cécile and my son separated.”
“Tristan being freed is the least of my concerns,” Chris retorted, but their words washed over me unheard. Were my fears unfounded? I closed my eyes and remembered the paintings Tristan had shown me, depicting what life had been like for humanity under troll domination. Remembered the drawings of humans begging for salvation after the Fall and the atrocities that followed. Would it be the same under King Thibault? Better? Or worse? I clenched my teeth.
But what he said next changed everything.
“I have no intention of going to war to regain my kingdom,” the King said. “Power over the Isle will be ceded to me peacefully.”
I felt my jaw drop open. “How can you claim such a thing?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “That is for me to know – I would not care for my plans to be disrupted. That,” he added, “might necessitate violence against your kind, which is something I wish to avoid. I’ve seen enough bloodshed, and I grow weary of it.”
Of all the things I had expected him to say, that hadn’t been one of them: an offer of a peaceful resolution from the mouth of one who could not lie. Yet I could not find it in myself to believe him. Still, I’d be a fool not to try to discover the rest of his plans.
“I’ve been looking for Anushka,” I said abruptly.
The King nodded. “And tell me, Cécile, in what manner has your search differed from that of the thousands of men and women who have sought her over the past five centuries? Do you think we’ve not hunted down every rumor, searched every face, infiltrated even the most exclusive of circles? Do you think we haven’t searched out birth records or found someone who could account for the childhood years of every woman with a hazy past?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
“You are unique, girl, and so should be your search,” he said softly.
He meant magic. The trolls had likely never sent a witch after her before; and if they had, there was no way she was as committed as me.
“I don’t know how,” I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from my voice. “And no one will teach me.” I had left all the grimoires in Trollus, and the handful of spells I could remember were useless in my search. I knew more than I had before, but that wasn’t saying much.
The King reached into his coat, and my heart skipped as I recognized the cover of the book he removed: it was Anushka’s grimoire. He held the book through the barrier, and I reached for it eagerly, but before I could grab it, he pulled it back. “First I want your word.”
A small smile made its way onto my face. “Afraid I’ll use her magic against you?”
He waved the bloody handkerchief back and forth. “I believe you lack one of the requisite ingredients. No, before I give you this nasty bit of work, I want your word that you will use it to hunt down Anushka. That you will stop at nothing to find her and bring her to me here.”
“Cécile, don’t!” Chris shouted. “If you promise him something, it will be binding.”
“I’m not promising you anything until I see Tristan,” I said.
“You’ll see him when you make progress.”
“I’ll stop searching this moment unless you let me see him,” I said, raising my chin in defiance. This might be my only chance, and I wouldn’t give it up without a fight.
“I hoped you would be reasonable,” the King said with a sigh. “But very well. Bring him!” he shouted back into the tunnel. Moments later, I could hear boots treading on stone, but also the sound of something heavy being dragged.
Chris gripped my arm. “Be strong. This isn’t going to be easy.”
As if I didn’t know. For months I’d felt Tristan’s agony as he was subjected to punishment at his father’s order. Had watched the silver marks on my knuckles tarnish as his strength was sapped in ways my mind too easily imagined. But none of it prepared me for the sight of him being dragged barefoot and shirtless between armed guards, who flung him at his father’s feet.
A sob tore from my lips as my eyes took in his gaunt frame, filthy and covered with dried blood. Three sets of manacles encircled his arms, manacles designed to hold in place iron spikes skewered through flesh and bone. Fresh blood oozed around the metal, falling in crimson droplets to soak the sand beneath him. The King reached down and pulled the hood off his head. Tristan remained unmoving, slumped against the barrier. A breeze rose off the sea, gusting by me to tug at his grime-caked hair.
Very slowly, he raised his face, eyes focusing on me. “Cécile,” he croaked. “I told you never to come back.”
—
CHAPTER 3
Cécile
Only Chris’s firm grip on my arm prevented me from launching myself through the barrier. “Damn you to hell,” I screamed at the King. “Who does this to his own son? How do you live with yourself?”
How could I live with myself knowing it was my fault Tristan was in this position, and that I’d done nothing about it?
“He’s lucky I suffer him to live,” the King replied evenly. “Tristan is guilty of treason of the highest level. He conspired against his father and his king. He instigated a rebellion that resulted in numerous deaths. He began a duel against me that very nearly cost me my life.”
“You gave him no choice,” I replied, my voice bitter.
The King slowly shook his head. “He always had a choice. He chose you. Now he must suffer the consequences.”
Tristan slowly pushed himself up onto his knees, and I saw with relief that there was still a gleam of spirit in his eyes. He wasn’t broken. At least, not yet. “Cécile, don’t listen to him.” His voice was rough from lack of use. Or screaming. “You need to go now.”
“I’m not leaving you like this,” I said.
Tristan grimaced. “Christophe, take her away from here. Far away. You promised to keep her safe, and this is far from it.”
“He’s right.” Chris tugged on my arms, drawing me back. I struggled against him, digging my heels into the rock and sand, but he was stronger.
“Let me go,” I shouted.
Tristan’s face tightened with concentration that mirrored the resolve I felt through our bond. “You gave me your word, Christophe,” he said. “I expect you to keep it.”
“Damn troll,” Chris muttered. Ignoring my hammering fists, he flipped me over his shoulder and started out to the beach.
“Put me down,” I demanded. I’d abandoned Tristan once, and I wasn’t going to do it again. Clenching my teeth, I called upon the power of the earth, drawing it deep within me. “Stop.”
The fire of the torch flared and bent away from the wind gusting in off the ocean, the river reversing its direction as the waves surged, flooding up around Chris’s boots. The full moon gave me power enough to match Tristan in this, and I intended to use it.
Chris froze.
“You will not interfere,” I said.
“Christophe!” Tristan shouted. “Take Cécile away from here.”
Chris groaned and clutched his head, dropping me with a splash.
“You’re going to break his mind,” the King said, and when I regained my feet, I saw that he was watching with great interest.
Chris fell to his knees in the water, clutching at the rocks beneath. “Please,” he groaned. “It hurts.”
I relaxed my will, unwilling to let my friend suffer to prove a point. “Tristan, stop what you’re doing to him,” I said. “You’ve no right making decisions for me.”
He glared at me, then gave a short nod. “Stay, then.”
I turned my attention back to the King. “What do you want?”
“I’ve told you,” he replied. “I want your word that you will do everything within your power to find Anushka and deliver her to me. And in exchange, I will allow you and Tristan to be reunited.”
“Cécile, don’t.” Tristan rested a bloody hand against the barrier. “You know what will happen if you break the curse. It won’t just be us you set loose, the others will be free to walk in this world once more.”
“She knows what you’ve told her,” the King said, looking down at his son as though no longer quite certain how much Tristan had divulged. “What loyalty does she owe the Regent of Trianon? What has he ever done for her? Is keeping him in power,” he said, turning his attention back to me, “worth the cost?”
Indecision racked me to the core. “He says he can take back the Isle peacefully,” I said, my eyes flicking to the King. “He said he has a plan.”
I felt Tristan’s shock at my words, and he tilted his face up to look upon his father, who nodded. “It is the truth. When my plans are complete, Trianon will be ceded without violence against the citizens of the Isle.”
Long moments passed, and then Tristan dropped his head. “It’s a trick. Don’t believe him.”
“But, Tristan!” I desperately wanted the King’s words to be true – desperately wanted there to be an easy solution to this hopeless situation.
“Please,” Tristan pleaded. “Don’t promise him anything. If you do, he’ll own your will. Walk away from here and never come back.”
I trembled, my mind racing through all of the possible options. Tristan couldn’t see the future, he didn’t know for certain that history would repeat itself. Was it not possible that the King really meant what he said?
“I’m begging you, Cécile,” Tristan said, his voice shaking. “If you love me, you won’t give him what he wants.”
My eyes stung. “If I refuse,” I said to the King. “What then?”
His face hardened. “Are you certain you want to know?”
“Yes.” I had to tear the word from my throat, which was tight with terror.
“As you wish.” An invisible hand of magic slammed Tristan against the barrier, making him grimace in pain. I could see him struggling, muscles straining as he tried to free himself. Fresh blood welled up around the spikes through his arms.
“No!” I screamed. “No, no, no. Stop, please don’t hurt him!” I flung myself at the wall caging them in and ran up against magic as hard as rock. The King had erected his own barrier to keep me out. I whimpered as one of the guards revealed a whip studded with iron spikes.
“I’ll ask you again, Cécile, is it worth the cost?” The King nodded at the guard, and the lash snapped wickedly across Tristan’s shoulders, tearing open his skin. His face twisted, but his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t do it. No matter what he does, agree to nothing.”
The whip fell again. Blood splattered and Tristan clenched his teeth in agony. He won’t kill him, logic told me, but logic was cold comfort in the face of Tristan’s pain.
The King nodded, and the whip fell again. And again. Tristan bore it in near silence at first, but I felt his reaction to every fiery lash. And I felt him break an instant before the first scream tore from his throat. Still the whip fell.
It was too much.
“Stop! I promise. I’ll find her.” My words were garbled, falling over each other, but the King heard. The whip froze mid-lash and Tristan crumpled to the ground. Rivulets of blood trickled down his back, the iron-inflicted wounds refusing to heal.
“Whatever it takes?” the King asked. “And you’ll bring her here? I feel inclined to hear how well the witch crows with her guts removed, although I’d accept her death in any fashion.”
I nodded numbly. “I promise to do whatever it takes to find her and bring her here.”
“Good girl.” He tossed Anushka’s grimoire through the barrier. It landed with a thud on the wet rock.
I ignored it, dropping to my hands and knees. “Tristan?”
His eyes half-opened and fixed on mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.”
He turned his face away from me. He wasn’t grateful – he was angry that I’d failed him.
“Take him back to the palace and have him cleaned up.” The King watched with an expression devoid of emotion as the guards lifted Tristan between them and carried him up the River Road. Then he turned to me. “Best you get to work, little witch. You’ve a promise to keep.”
—
If you’d like to keep reading, The Hidden Huntress will be published by Angry Robot Books on June 2, 2015.
Julia Kitvaria Sarene