The Broken Ones Read online

  Below us, the icy mist circled and swirled away, turning the glow of troll-light ethereal and mystical. Aristocrats and commoners alike strolled through the city streets, tiny globes floating in their wakes like swimming stars, and above it all, the moon peered through the hole in the rocky ceiling above, a portal to the world beyond.

  “This is my favorite spot,” Pénélope said. “I’ve painted this scene a hundred times, but it’s never been quite right. It always comes out dark, but Trollus isn’t darkness, it’s light.”

  I smiled into her shoulder. “Walk with me. I want to show you something.”

  We took the path that paralleled the river, her arm in mine, and though I sensed the scrutiny of those we passed, it didn’t bother me. I bought her frosted cakes and sweet wine from a vendor, and we stopped briefly to listen to a poet recite a composition to a crowd. We talked about everything and anything, and I found myself with more words than breath, her eagerly nodding, our voices spilling over each other’s in enthusiasm until we were both laughing at the beautiful chaos of our conversation. And all I could think of was that this could be my life. With her, this is what my life would be like.

  This is a farce. A scheme. It isn’t real.

  But it felt real, and I never wanted to let it go.

  “What are we doing here?” Pénélope asked as we skirted the walls of the palace, following a white-graveled path toward a gated entrance.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” one of the guards at the gate said, swinging it open. “My lady.”

  “But we aren’t allowed in here without a royal,” Pénélope hissed, her eyes wide as I led her into the glass gardens.

  “Or a royal’s permission,” I said. “Trust me.”

  As soon as I said it, it dawned on me what a ludicrous request it was, given we were both here with an agenda. Yet she only smiled and said, “I do.” Then, letting go of my hand, she trotted down a path, silver blue skirts floating out behind her. I trailed after her, content to watch a guild-trained artist delight in what was undoubtedly Trollus’s greatest artistic achievement, but one that the crown kept for its eyes only.

  Pénélope was like a child in a garden full of sweets, whirling and turning, focusing on the curve of a leaf only to be lured away by the petal of a flower, her speech more exclamations of delight than words.

  “Have you never been here before?” I asked.

  “Once, as part of my guild training. But the masters loomed over us the entire time as though they thought we intended to smash the whole place to bits. And, of course, they weren’t lit.” She smiled, fingers trailing over a glass dragonfly perched on the mouth of a flower. “They were designed to be lit, you know? It’s the only way to truly see all the detail and nuance.”

  “So I hear.” So I knew. It was why I’d brought her here when I had. The King walked with the Queen after dinner, and he always lit them for her. His magic clung to its purpose with ruthless resolve, so I knew they’d remain bright long after they had departed.

  “It’s a shame not everyone can see them,” Pénélope said. “Do you think Tristan would ever consider changing the rules, or is that too egalitarian for him?”

  There was a bite to her voice, and my skin crawled, the lights around me seemed to move and shake like an illusion on the verge of cracking. “I doubt it’s a matter he’s given much thought.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “If it was your choice, what would you do?”

  “I’d tear down the walls and make sure the light never went dark.”

  She said nothing, turning her face toward a fountain, but not before I saw a faint smile cross her lips.

  Pénélope wandered down a path lined with weeping willows, glowing leaves suspended from branches formed of silvery wire that swayed in the shifting air. She turned in slow circles, face tilted upward, then came back to stop in front of me. Reaching up, she pushed back the hood of my cloak, then her hand dropped to my forearm, her eyes searching mine. “I wish you wouldn’t wear that around me.”

  “Ha…” My throat strangled the word, because it wasn’t habit. The shadows made me brave.

  “How you look is part of what makes you the way you are,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

  Kiss her.

  The clocks in the palace chimed the midnight hour, urging me on. I felt her rise on her toes, leaning into me, her lips slightly parted.

  Then abruptly, she took a step back and asked, “Is Tristan very cross with me?”

  The moment shattered.

  “No,” I stammered, struggling for words for the first time that night. “He… He understands that, umm… circumstances have been difficult for you.”

  “No doubt he’s given it little thought,” she said. “His mind is probably consumed with greater concerns?”

  The question was tentative, but it was there, and I felt like an idiot. For letting myself forget that there were ulterior motives and schemes swirling beneath what I’d stupidly believed was the most perfect night of my life. For letting myself believe she might want this as much as I did.

  And Anaïs’s words echoed through my thoughts: Pénélope’s survival depends on you, Marc. On how well you toe the line between giving her enough information to be valuable and giving her so much you betray our cause.

  Tristan would have known exactly what to say, how to give an answer that was anything but. I wasn’t so gifted with duplicity. “Maybe you let your family’s prejudices color your views. You should make your own judgments.”

  My voice was unintentionally sharp, my answer sounding like a reprimand, and she flinched, then said, “I didn’t mean… That is to say, I know he’s your friend, so obviously…”

  “I didn’t… I know he can be frustrating…”

  Our words tumbled over each other like a mess of spilled paint, ugly and unintended, and we both abruptly fell silent, the air burning with magic from our collective unease.

  “It’s late,” Pénélope blurted out. “I should’ve been home hours ago.”

  “I’ll walk you back.” I was desperate to diffuse the tension, to reclaim what we’d had, but she shook her head. “Better you didn’t. My father…”

  Will grill you for every word I said.

  “Goodnight, Marc,” she finished, and before I could respond, she disappeared into the garden.

  Chapter Eight

  Pénélope

  The walk back to my home was a blur, my mind racing and sweat pooling beneath my breasts as I debated what to tell my father.

  If there was anything to tell him at all.

  Despite my intentions to approach the evening with a mind for discovering some small details that would appease my father, the night had gotten away from me from the first moment Marc had walked onto the bridge.

  For years, I’d dreamed of being courted – to be half of one of the young couples strolling down the river pathways, hand in hand, heart racing with anticipation of a stolen kiss beneath a bridge. Imagined what I would wear and what would be said. The taste of wine and sweets on my lips, and music in my ears. But my imagination had been a pale comparison to what I’d experienced tonight.

  It had seemed all the magic and brilliance and beauty of Trollus had been on display just for us, as though the city itself had known how important tonight was to me. A gift I’d wanted but never expected to receive. If there was a way I could go back and live through it over and over again, I’d do it, because I feared it was something that could never be replicated. Though perhaps that, in part, was what had made it so special.

  With the exception of the end.

  I’d almost kissed Marc beneath the glowing willows of the glass gardens – a moment so perfect that it was the stuff of which stories were written. Then the clocks in the palace had chimed the midnight hour, reminding me of my purpose, and the brilliance of the evening had come crashing down around me as my predicament was remembered.

  It had seemed, i
n that heartbeat, a fell thing to allow his lips to touch mine with my motivations as murky as they were. It would be a betrayal and one, if discovered, that Marc would take harder than most. To describe him as fragile would be a fallacy, for he was not. Yet I knew better than most that his appearance made him feel unworthy of another’s desire, and if he were to learn of my father’s involvement, he’d believe every word and action on my part were motivated by self-preservation rather than a product of the sentiment in my heart. I would not do that to him.

  So instead I’d ransacked the moment, asking about Tristan in a desperate attempt to redeem my purpose, rendering both of us uncomfortable and me without a damnable thing to report back to my father. And so the dream now descended into a nightmare as I walked up to the door, because there would be consequences to my failure.

  There always were.

  At first, the house was quiet, and I breathed a breath of hope that Anaïs was out with Tristan or the twins and my father was caught up in the salon of some other lord or lady.

  Then I heard the screams.

  As always, they came from deep in the lower level, a place of blackness and horror to which I never, ever ventured. Roland at play with whatever half-blood or human had been drummed up for the purpose of indulging the young prince’s violent proclivities. For appeasing him and winning him over to our side.

  Our side.

  I cringed, hurrying across the foyer, but before I reached the stairs, footsteps and the clack clack of my father’s cane against the marble filled my ears.

  “Pénélope.”

  Taking a deep breath, I turned. My father stood next to the table in the center of the room, the crystal lamp atop it casting shadows on his face as he dabbed at the droplets of scarlet splattered across his skin with a silken handkerchief. And not for the first time, I wondered how much of the horror that went on below was not for Roland’s amusement, but for my father’s.

  “Did you enjoy your evening?”

  My tongue felt thick in my mouth. “Yes.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He tossed the stained silk on the table. “I purchased some chocolates made by the confectioner in Trianon that you are so fond of. They are in your room.”

  “Chocolates.”

  He smiled. “Rest well, darling.” Then he turned and disappeared back down into the hell below.

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep a wink. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that I didn’t close my eyes longer than it took to blink, so afraid was I that my father was merely waiting for my guard to drop in order to strike and glean what information he could from my mind. But the doors to my chambers didn’t open until morning, Lessa flinging them wide, every lamp in my bedroom burning bright with her magic and leaving my eyes stinging. She had a pale pink gown draped over one arm and a cruel-looking corset in her free hand. Without a word, she tossed the garments on the bed, then went into the bathing room, a rush of steam and the sound of running water following her back out again.

  “Well,” she demanded. “Are you going to get out of bed or do I have to drag you out by your heels?”

  “I wasn’t aware I had any pressing engagements,” I replied acidly, pulling off my nightdress and tossing it on the floor.

  “He wants you ready and out the door within the hour.”

  There was only one he in this house, but I asked, “Why? Where am I going?”

  Lessa shrugged, though whether it was because she was unable or unwilling to divulge any answers, I couldn’t tell.

  The water was uncomfortably hot, but I refused to flinch as I stepped in, submitting to having my body scrubbed and my hair washed, Lessa using magic rather than her own hands for the task like she was supposed to. Steam rose from my hair as she dried it, looping curls forming one after another even as she deftly applied cosmetics to my face, her own remaining sour the entire time. She’d always been cool toward me, but since my affliction was revealed, she’d been outright nasty, with seemingly no fear of ramifications.

  And I didn’t understand why. Of all the members of my family, I was the kindest and most sympathetic to our servants – even to her. Before, I would’ve been too nervous to call out her behavior, but now… “Why do you hate me so much?”

  Her eyes focused on mine, bold and not the least bit subservient. “Because you are pathetic.”

  I lifted one eyebrow. “At best, that is a trait worthy of pity; at worst, disgust; but hate seems extreme.”

  She snorted, turning me and starting on the laces of the corset before saying, “In Trollus, power is supposed to be king, yet you are proof that blood is the true ruler. You are weak, in magic and in body, and yet I’m expected to kneel before you because one of my ancestors four generations past was human. Despite the fact that I could crush you like a worm, you are served and granted nearly every liberty, while I am property.”

  “There is another word for the emotion you describe,” I replied, grinding my teeth together as my ribs compressed. “And none of that is my doing. I didn’t write the laws. Better to direct your hate at the system.”

  She laughed, holding out the gown for me to step into. “Are you suggesting I take up the sympathizer banner, Pénélope? Your father would have me dispatched to the labyrinth within the hour of him discovering I’d been anything less than loyal.”

  I glanced in the mirror, seeing the ensemble for what it was: a tool. My gown was innocent and sweet and entirely appropriate for the day, while the garment beneath constricted and molded my body, the effect subtly but undeniably alluring. “I don’t think he would,” I said, considering the young woman behind me in the reflection, only a handful of years older than I was myself. “Bastard or not, you’re still the King’s daughter.”

  “I doubt my father would even notice I was dead, much less care.” Lessa’s voice was glib, but there were traces of an old hurt in it, buried deep but not forgotten.

  “You’re wrong.” I started toward the door. “Neither my father nor my grandmother invest time or money in anything that doesn’t pay dividends, and you cost a great deal of both. Which leads me to believe that the King cares far more about your fate than you’ve been led to believe, and that one day, my family will use that power to their advantage.” I hesitated with my back to her, thinking of myself as much as the half-blood behind me. Lessa had done what she had to in order to make a life for herself.

  For the sake of my sister, and for the sake of myself, it was time I did the same.

  * * *

  The markets were teeming with activity, dozens of human traders arriving with their wares to sell in exchange for Trollus gold. Many were the fair-skinned men and woman hailing from the Isle, but just as many bore the darker complexions from the continent and beyond, the gold we paid worth the perilous journey across the seas. All were oath-sworn – bound by magic to keep our existence a secret – and were experienced in our ways, my accoutrements recognizable to them, if not my face, and each of them bowed or curtseyed as I passed, eyes remaining fixed on the paving stones.

  My destination was the clearing house, where the crown arranged the purchase of nearly all the goods brought into the city, which were in turn sold to the merchants who used them or sold them to the rest of those living in Trollus. The process was, ostensibly, to maintain control over prices and to prevent humans not authorized to trade from doing so, but most believed the true reason was because the crown turned a tidy profit as the middleman. I believed the real motivation was control. Control over what was bought and sold, who did the buying and selling, but most importantly, over the exchange of information between the inside and outside world. Nothing happened in Trollus that the Montignys didn’t know about. If Tristan intended to overthrow his father, then he might be in communication with human allies outside of Trollus, and for that to be happening, Marc had to be helping him.

  Which was why I was here.

  The clearing house was packed to the brim with thos
e conducting business, but occupied as they were, more than a few commoners raised their eyebrows at the sight of me as I passed through the large hall, climbing the stairs to the offices of the trade magister, where I knew I’d find Marc in the thick of things.

  The Comte de Courville was the King’s right-hand man, holding the key to the labyrinth and control over everything that entered and left Trollus. Marc was destined to inherit the role, but he’d taken on many of the duties early due to his father’s ailing health.

  Two large guards stood outside Marc’s office, but neither made a move to stop me as I knocked on the heavy doors engraved with the Montigny crest.

  “Yes?”

  The sound of Marc’s voice, muffled or not, sent a thrill of anticipation racing through me, and I pushed inside. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  At the sight of me, he rose, banging into the desk with enough force that water sloshed out of the cup sitting on it. I caught the liquid with magic before it could damage any of the paperwork, returning it to its original receptacle as I nodded at the two humans standing across from him.

  “Pénélope, I…” Marc trailed off, then coughed and straightened his shoulders. “Lady Pénélope, this is Monsieur Girard and his son Christophe. Their family has supplied grain and other foodstuffs to Trollus for several generations.” Then he gestured at me. “Her ladyship is the daughter of the Duke d’Angoulême.”

  Both men bowed low, but I didn’t miss the slight stiffening in their shoulders at my name, suggesting they were not unaware of my father’s stance against their kind. “Do you wish for me to wait outside?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “We’re very nearly finished.”

  I smiled and took a seat in the corner. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

  They continued with a discussion of the price of some late season goods, the elder human doing the talking while his son listened on. Which was just as well, because the young man’s eyes kept drifting in my direction, then jerking away again as though he feared I’d burn them from their sockets if I caught him staring. He was blond and blue-eyed, skin ruddy from exposure to sun and elements, though I judged him to be of similar age to Marc and me. They both bore the faint scent of hay and horses, and I imagined him walking or riding through fields, the open sky over his head.