“As it turns out,” the King said, laughter cutting off abruptly, “she’ll be neither leaving nor dying.”
Tristan froze, and this time the shock on his face matched that in his mind. “Pardon?”
“Your aunt believes it premature for me to give up on her fulfilling the prophesy. She proposes we keep her around for a while longer, and that you should treat her as any man does his wife. We need to give the people some form of hope or who knows what sort of trouble they’ll cause.”
Tristan blanched. “You can’t be serious?”
The King raised one eyebrow.
“She’s a human.”
“I noticed.” The King took another mouthful of wine, leaving a red stain on his upper lip.
“You want me to…”
“Yes. You’ve bonded her, and now you shall bed her. I can’t say I relish the idea of a bunch of half-bloods running about the royal nursery, but quite frankly, I’d breed you to a sheep if that is what it took to break the witch’s blasted malediction. You’re seventeen years old, time to man-up.”
“I don’t care for mutton.” Tristan crossed his arms. “It’s too tough.”
“Well then count your lucky stars that your dear Cécile isn’t a sheep,” the King said, climbing to his feet. “I’m certain you’ll find her markedly more tender.”
I pressed back against the closet, bile rising in my throat. They were discussing me as though I had no more value than a side of meat, and… My mind refused to delve any further into what else they were discussing.
“This isn’t a debate, Tristan. This is an order – do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tristan said, plainly out of glib retorts.
His father patted him on the shoulder. “It will be worth the cost once you are outside in the sun – just imagine, eventually you’ll rule lands wider than the eyes can see.”
“Who wouldn’t want that?”
The King nodded, satisfied. “Good lad.”
As the door shut behind him, I let out a huge gust of breath that I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding. “Tristan,” I whispered. “Get me out of here.”
He didn’t move from where he sat on the arm of a chair.
“Tristan!”
He looked up, his troll-light casting eerie shadows on his face. “I’ll send someone to let you out,” he said. “I need to…” He got to his feet and, ignoring my pleas, left the room.
The knot of emotion residing in my mind did not depart with him. Resting my head against the closet door, I attempted to thrust aside my own feelings to better focus on his. Which was an exercise of frustration. He was unhappy, that much I could say, but it was hard to pick specifics out of the seething stew of emotion. And what good was knowing specifics anyway? What good was knowing how he felt? What possible advantage could such a connection give me?
Tired, sore, and more than a little scared, I settled on the floor. My skirts rustled as I arranged them to make myself comfortable. I could probably have picked the lock, but there seemed no point. The closet was darker than the darkest of nights and the room no better. I could not escape without light, and that would be hard to come by in this place.
I needed to get away. Any hope the trolls would let me go had been dashed by the conversation I had just overheard. The King intended to keep me in Trollus indefinitely, and he had expectations of what I would do while I was here. At best, I was an instrument for breaking a curse, and at worst, a broodmare for what they called half-bloods. The very idea made me shiver. It wasn’t Tristan who repulsed me – despite the fact he wasn’t human, he was handsome, and if I were being honest with myself, the strange drink they’d given me had drawn out stirrings of desire I would gladly do without. Clearly the same had not occurred for him. To him, I was little better than a sheep. And the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone who was disgusted by me made me cringe. Because I would never be able to escape it – even standing on far sides of the city, I would still be able to feel it.
I leaned my head against the shelves, exhaustion starting to take hold of me. Only as I started to drift off to sleep did it occur to me: if the trolls had been trying to break the curse for five hundred years, why had Tristan been so happy when we failed?
CHAPTER 8
TRISTAN
“Bloody stones and sky, Marc,” I hissed as he walked through the door, “where have you been?” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve been waiting a good hour for you.”
“So sorry, cousin,” he replied, tossing his cloak in the corner and pouring himself a drink. “I am at your beck and call, but it did take a bit of time to reestablish curfew.”
I pushed aside my books and leaned my elbows on the table, only now noticing the drying blood on Marc’s black sleeve. “Casualties?”
“Twelve dead, all miners except for one street worker, but I believe he got caught in the crossfire, such as it was.”
I grimaced. “Perpetrators?”
Marc shrugged. “Hard to prove, but it sounds like guild members. They did not report any injuries.”
“They wouldn’t.” I rubbed my temples, trying to push aside the knot of emotion residing in the back of my skull that most decidedly did not belong to me. The emotions belonging to the girl. Cécile.
“Do we know who instigated?” I asked.
Marc’s expression was grim and told me all I needed to know. Sliding my arms across the table I rested my forehead against the smooth surface and then banged it against the wood twice for good measure. “I can’t think,” I said. “Can you deal with it until I have more time?”