The Broken Ones Page 18

  Because I did not want to give up my role as leader.

  I knew better than anyone that it had been a false sense of power – that Tristan had always been in control, the plans all his and my task only to implement them. Yet there’d been much to that, because without me, there was no face to our endeavor, no assurance that we had the power to see it through. There would be no revolution. But once Tristan took control, he would so thoroughly fill my shoes that I couldn’t help but believe I’d be all but forgotten. By the half-bloods. By my friends. By history itself. Lost to the shadows in which I hid.

  It hurt.

  But the longer Tristan’s accusation sat upon my mind, the more I believed that I deserved it.

  I’d known when I’d bonded Pénélope that I’d be putting my life at risk, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be risking the lives of anyone else, much less those of every half-blood in Trollus. But now every servant I passed in the hall caused a twinge of guilt to race through me, because I swore I saw accusation in their eyes. Betrayal. Fear. I’d stood before them and painted Tristan’s vision of the future – one in which they would be free of bondage. But more than I’d realized, they’d tied their hope of seeing that future to me. My power. My influence. My ambition. And I’d put Pénélope ahead of all of it. Ahead of them.

  Yet I couldn’t bring myself to see that as a mistake.

  Out of her father’s house, Pénélope thrived. The haunted expression that had lived on her face for so long was gone, replaced with a levity that made her more lovely than ever. I spent every spare second in her presence, filling the solar where she painted with hothouse flowers from Trianon that I imported at great expense for the pleasure of watching her smile as she inhaled their fragrance. She’d admire them for a heartbeat before promptly inviting students – low and high born – from the Artisans’ Guild to study the precious plants. My home was soon full of artists painting and sculpting and blowing glass into replicas that would be sold back into the world they imitated, but neither me nor my parents begrudged the traffic.

  When she wasn’t working in her studio, I’d find her in the room she’d selected for the nursery, quietly painting a mural on one of the walls in brilliant, vibrant colors. From time to time, she’d pause, pressing one hand to her stomach, and I knew she was feeling the baby’s magic. That she loved our child. That she believed she’d be able to bring it into the world. That she’d survive its birth.

  She was happy.

  In some ways, that was the greatest gift of the bond. That it brought verity to our relationship, forcing us to be truthful about our emotions even if we were not always forthcoming with our thoughts. She was living life the way she’d always dreamed, and I’d given her that chance.

  But the truth was a double-edged sword.

  “I feel everything I’ve gained has come at your expense,” she said, resting her head on my lap and curling her knees into her chest. My parents had retired hours ago, and the twins had only just left after regaling us with their latest composition. “You aren’t happy.”

  “I–”

  My tongue froze on the words even as she turned her head to look up, fixing me with a dark frown.

  “I’m happy when I’m with you,” I amended.

  “That’s not the same,” she said. “And it isn’t good enough. They’re acting like you’re already…”

  “Dead,” I finished for her, and because I knew they meant Tristan, I blocked our conversation from any prying ears.

  “Yes.”

  Her guilt lanced through me, and I let my head fall back until it was resting on the back of the sofa, staring up at the dark ceiling. “He’s being pragmatic, as always. He always plans for the worst. If I die before transitioning the leadership to him, he’ll have a difficult time gaining the half-bloods’ trust, if it can be done at all.”

  “There’s a difference between being prepared and being an ass.”

  A ghost of a smile turned up the corner of my mouth. “Not in his case. Not in this case.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “This is Anaïs’s influence, I think. If you’d let me talk to him…”

  “No.” I straightened. “I don’t want them to know you know.”

  “Why?”

  Because he’d told me Pénélope was not to be told of our plans. And I was afraid that admitting I’d divulged everything would be the last straw in Tristan’s mind, the final betrayal that would see my eviction from all plots or plans whether I lived or died. “It’s better if they don’t know.” Better for me. “Either way, tomorrow Tristan will take control, and I’ll…”

  “You’ll…?”

  Her voice was soft and full of sympathy. But I was tired of this conversation. “I’ll have all the time in the world to spend with you.”

  She smiled. “How will we fill it?”

  Standing up, I lifted her with me. “I have a few ideas.” Then I started in the direction of our bedroom, determined not to give my cousin, the revolution, or anything other than my wife another thought until I had to.

  * * *

  The self-appointed leaders of the half-bloods milled anxiously in the basement of the tavern, most too nervous to do more than pace.

  I was no less anxious.

  We had false meetings set up all around the Dregs, our human supporters spreading rumors and lies in order to throw spies off our trail, but everyone in the poorest quarter of Trollus knew something was happening. That a revelation was about to occur. A shift in power.

  Anaïs and the twins were lingering near the alternate locations, hidden, but making sure the weight of their magic was felt in order to be effective decoys.

  I wasn’t sure it would be enough.

  Illusion blocked the tunnel Anaïs had carved between this building and the next, but it did nothing to temper the weight of power anyone with an ounce of troll blood in their veins could sense. Tristan was doing what he could to contain his magic, but he was nervous, so it was very nearly a lost cause.

  Tips alone knew of the tunnel, and with a rare lack of self-awareness, he stood staring at the illusion of stone, jaw flexing and unflexing. “What is this, Marc?” he asked. “Who have you brought to our doorstep?”

  “Soon enough,” I said. “Is everyone here?”

  He jerked his head up and down in an affirmative, and then muttered at someone to lock the door to the cellar while I made my way to the podium at the front. Would this be the last time I stood here with all eyes on me? I wondered as I stepped onto the block of stone, head and shoulders above the small crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I said, once they’d settled. “I know that you do so at great risk to yourselves.”

  They all gave grim nods, from the miners permanently streaked with dirt to the ladies’ maids concealed with grey cloaks.

  “Countless times over the centuries, the half-blood class has attempted to rise up against their forced indenture. Those attempts have always failed, often with brutal consequences. They were doomed to fail not only because they lacked the power required to overthrow the monarchy and its practices, but also because no one in the upper classes saw the need for change.” I paused to let my words settle in. “This time will be different. This time we won’t lose.”

  They stepped closer, fervor beginning to glow in their eyes.

  “It is time for us to rise up against those who believe that blood and magic and power give them the right to rain tyranny down upon Trollus. Who believe it gives them the right to subjugate. To maim–” I nodded at Tips “–or to murder–” I gestured toward the other miners. “It is far past time that those trolls were held accountable for their actions. It is past time they were held accountable to us!”

  The half-bloods shouted their agreement, pumping their fists into the air until I held up a hand to settle them. “Long, rumors have swirled that I am not the true leader of this movement – that I represent an individual who, out of necessity, needed to remain anonymous to avoid jeopardizing ou
r cause. An individual with the power to overthrow King Thibault and instate a new regime in Trollus. I’m here today to tell you that this is no rumor – it is the truth.”

  The room grew silent, and I held my breath, savoring this last moment. Behind me, I felt Tristan’s presence, along with another troll with power. Anaïs? There was too much magic in the air, pressing closer, and my skin prickled, but there was no stopping now. “I’ll keep you in suspense no longer.”

  Then I stepped off the podium and turned, expecting to see a cloaked Tristan, but instead finding myself face to face with my father. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder, then said under his breath, “Go, Marc. Take Tristan and get away from this place.”

  I blinked.

  “The Duke is coming. Go now, or all is lost.” Then he stepped up onto the podium, his magic forcibly shoving me through the illusion even as he addressed the crowd. “Good evening.”

  I stumbled, hands catching me before I fell.

  “Your father came in,” Tristan hissed. “I didn’t know what to say or do, then he told me the Duke was coming and that we need to go.”

  “I can’t.” I jerked out of his grip. “If the Duke finds him here, he’ll be convicted of treason. Your father will have no choice but to execute him.”

  And I could feel it. Powerful trolls converging on us from all sides, the Duke and all of his followers moving to catch the sympathizer leader in the act. “We need to get him out of there.”

  I flung myself through the tunnel only to slam up against a barrier. Swearing, I twisted around to face Tristan. “Let me through.”

  “It’s not my magic.”

  Before he even said the words, I knew that it wasn’t. It was my father’s, and I hadn’t the strength to break it down. “Help me,” I demanded. “Stones and sky, Tristan. If you never do another thing for me, at least do this.”

  Silence. Then he said, “All right.”

  He pushed past me, then froze, and when I turned, it was to see a hooded figure standing at the base of the cellar stairs, several other similarly attired trolls lurking behind him.

  “Well, well, my lord Comte,” the Duke d’Angoulême said, pushing back his hood. “I did not expect to find you standing here. Whatever will His Majesty think?”

  Several half-bloods screamed, the mass of them pressing to the far side of the cellar as the Duke walked toward my father. One of the other hooded figures darted into the crowd, snatching hold of one of the half-bloods, who screamed as he was torn apart, the Comtesse Báthory’s familiar laugh cutting through the room.

  “Do something,” I shouted at Tristan.

  His magic surged, tearing down the barrier, but as he did, my father turned. “Run!”

  Then the air filled with power, more than I’d known he’d possessed, and the ground shook with a resounding boom.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pénélope

  I watched Marc depart for the meeting with the half-bloods with a heavy heart, hating that I’d been the one to cost him something that had mattered so much. Logically, I understood Tristan’s concerns – saw the need for the half-bloods to know who the true leader of the revolution was. What I did not understand was why Tristan seemed intent on driving Marc away when he was so integral to their plots. What we’d done didn’t seem to warrant the reaction.

  But the more I thought on it, the more I realized that Tristan’s actions were as much a way to protect himself as they were to protect the sympathizer cause, if not more. Marc was like an older brother to him, and I thought, perhaps, that he was unconsciously pushing him away to insulate himself from what he saw as Marc’s imminent demise. There was only one way, as far as I could see, to undo the harm that had been done to their relationship, and that was for me to survive.

  To live.

  Such a simple thing, on the surface. Heart to keep beating, lungs to keep breathing, but my father was not wrong when he’d said I faced a certain inevitability. The child would come, and while I hoped and prayed with all my heart that it would be many months from now, and that he or she would live, I knew that the more trauma my body suffered, the less likely I was to survive.

  Which meant the less likely it was that Marc would survive.

  The injustice of it, the unfairness, ground upon my mind as I paced through the house, trying and failing to derive a solution, but there was none. The sacrifice of one life for the chance of saving the other, neither of which would be at risk if I hadn’t made the choice to save myself. Rightly or wrongly, that was the worst part of it: that all of our woe had resulted from my fear, from my will to endure, my desire for love. From my selfish wish to have a life worth living. I’d gotten exactly what I wanted, but the cost… the cost was beyond what I’d ever imagined. And it need not have been, if only I hadn’t fallen prey to my father’s trickery, because I could have had nearly all those things without risking anyone other than myself. And Marc wouldn’t be on his way to a meeting where he’d give up a role I knew he cherished more than he ever admitted.

  Depression dragged me into the darkest corners of my mind, visions of all the many ways our situation would play out circulating through my thoughts. Down and down, and with them came a regret that was crippling. And no matter how hard I fought it, unrelenting.

  Which meant I had to do something.

  * * *

  Other than the time I’d spent in the galleries, I’d only on the very rarest of occasions visited the royal library, my leisure time dedicated to my art rather than to reading. Sadly, that left me woefully unequipped to navigate the enormous structure with anything resembling expedience, so I went in search of one of the multiple librarians employed by the crown.

  I found one bent over an ancient-looking tome, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper as though his life depended on it. He was so deeply embroiled with his work that though I stood almost next to him for several moments, he did not notice my presence until I gave a soft cough.

  He started upright, stool going sideways to clatter against the marble floor, pot of ink splattering in every direction, including all over the pages of the manuscript. He stared in undisguised horror at the stained pages until I stepped closer, using my magic to lift the ink from the paper, returning the tiny droplets to their pot.

  “Incredible,” he said, touching the pristine pages. “The level of focus…”

  I shrugged. “I learned as a child to clean up my messes or face the consequences.”

  He finally seemed to realize who precisely he was speaking to, collapsing into an awkward bow that knocked him against the table, nearly sending the ink toppling once more. “My apologies, my lady. I did not realize…”

  I waved away his panic. “It’s of no matter – well I know what it’s like to lose oneself in one’s work.”

  “Of course.” He bobbed another bow. “We have several pieces of your work here, including your portrait of Her Majesty, which–”

  On any other day, I’d be willing to discuss artwork for hours, but not today, so I interrupted. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Martin, my lady. Fifth librarian.”

  He couldn’t have been any older than I was, only just having completed his guild training, though he must have scored high to earn a placement here. “Martin, I require some assistance in my research, if you are willing.”

  “Of course.” He bowed again. “On which topic?”

  “Bonding.”

  He led me through the towering shelves of books with the confidence of one who all but lives among them, stopping next to one, the crystal sconces in close proximity brightening to reveal the titles. Extracting two volumes, he held them out. “These are particularly well done.”

  Opening one, I took in the pages of drawings of intricate bonding marks, all labeled with the names and titles of those who bore them. Some brilliant silver. Some greying with a mate’s illness.

  Some black.

  “Every bonding mark is unique,” Martin said, seeming to misinterpret my silenc
e as I stared at the blackened marks of a woman who’d survived her husband’s death some two hundred years past, the image filling me with both terror and hope.

  Handing back the volumes, I said, “I’m rather more interested in the nature of the magic. Whether–” I swallowed hard “–whether there is anything about the chances of surviving the death of a spouse.”

  His face filled with sympathy, and though Marc’s and my situation was well known – and discussed – in Trollus, it still troubled me that we were seen as a tragedy. “I’m not dead yet,” I snapped, then pressed a hand to my temple as he looked away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  Martin made a noncommittal noise, then ran a finger down the spines of a long row of books. “There are innumerable accounts of survival, as well as the steps certain individuals took which they believed allowed them to endure the loss, but…”

  That was exactly what I was interested in, although his hesitation told me all I needed to know.

  “But there is no pattern,” he continued. “No way of predicting who will survive the severing, and no proven method for improving one’s chances. If there were, it would be well known and practiced. I’m happy to set the best of them out for your reading, but I do not think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  The words on the spines seemed to blur and dance, taunting me with the futility of this errand.

  “And there is no way to break it?” To even have asked the question felt like infidelity on my part, to consider destroying the greatest gift that had ever been given to me.

  Silence, then, “None other than death, my lady.”

  Which circled back to the only solution: my survival. “What literature do you have on afflictions?” I asked. “Specifically, my own.”