“You don’t have to go in,” Tristan said, hand closing on my elbow.
“Yes, he does,” Ana?s responded, but I was already picking my way through the rubble, down the battered staircase to where my uncle, the King of Trollus, stood next to a still form draped in a black cloth. The area around them was untouched by the blast of magic, the podium I’d only recently stood on pristine and unmarked. Instinctively, I knew my father had protected the half-bloods around him from the blast, and judging from the lack of bodies, they’d escaped.
I realized then that I’d stopped in my tracks, my feet unwilling to take me closer. Until I saw the body’s face, it wouldn’t be real. My father wouldn’t be dead. My mother wouldn’t be…
Swallowing hard, I willed myself forward. The King silently watched me approach, then took a step back to give me space. I knelt down, and with one quick jerk, pulled back the cloth.
My father’s eyes stared up at me, sightless. Dead.
My stomach clenched, and I turned away just in time to heave my guts out onto the ground, my body feeling like it was trying to wrench itself apart.
Then I looked back.
My father was untouched by injury, only the faint coating of dust on his skin marking that he’d been in the blast at all. His arms lay limply by his sides, hands encased with black gloves. I didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to feel the lifelessness. But I needed to know.
With shaking hands, I peeled back the leather of his glove, praying to the stars, the fates, and the human gods for some small mercy.
His bonding marks were black as ink. Black as iron rot. Black as death.
I closed my eyes, trying to breathe, but it felt like a vice was wrapped around my chest. Mother.
Then, through the fog of pain, I felt a troll with power move off to my left. Not Tristan. Not Ana?s. Not the King.
Him.
I lunged, intent on ripping Angoulême apart, but the King’s hand closed on the fabric of my cloak, hauling me back. “Control him,” he snarled at Tristan.
My cousin only crossed his arms. “No.”
Not that his defiance mattered. The King’s magic clamped down on me, and he said, “If the Duke killed your father, he will be sentenced and executed for it. Not before. And not by you.”
Which meant there would be no justice, because Angoulême hadn’t killed my father. At least, not directly. My father had burned out his magic, taking my mother along with him. All to protect me.
“You will answer for what happened here, Angoulême,” the King said, turning to the stairs. “And you’ll answer for it now.”
The Duke’s fist gripped the handle of his cane, eyes blank and unreadable. There was not so much as a speck of dust on him, the magic he perpetually coated himself in having protected him from the blast. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
He turned to follow the King, but not before pointing one finger at me. Quietly enough that only I heard, he said, “This is not where it ends, boy.”
I heard the threat.
This was not the last thing he’d take from me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pénélope
Shifting on my stool, I examined the canvas with a critical eye before reaching for my box of pigments to mix a paint the exact shade of blue of the sapphire earrings Marc’s mother had habitually worn. The very same pair that were now sitting on a piece of black velvet on the table to my left.
It needed to be perfect.
The Comtesse, seated at her piano, while the Comte looked on, entranced and deeply in love with his talented wife. It was so clear in my mind’s eye: a scene I’d seen often during my time in their home; but while replicating the image was no challenge, capturing the depth of the sentiment between the pair had thus far eluded me. And without it, the piece was worthless.
And I needed it to be perfect.
It had been two weeks since the pair had died. Two weeks since a blast of magic had torn apart a tavern in the Dregs, killing several half-bloods and leaving my father and his followers standing in a ruin of stone, Marc’s father dead at their feet. The King had questioned my father hard, but all he’d been able to accuse the Comte of was meeting with a group of half-bloods, which was no crime. Those half-bloods who hadn’t been killed had somehow managed to escape and, of course, none had come forward to explain the nature of the meeting.
Still, rumors had swirled that the Comte had been the leader of the sympathizer revolution and had sacrificed his life to protect the cause. But there was no proof, and as the days passed, the chatter and speculation diminished, the King seeming content to let the matter rest.
Marc had told me little about what had happened, and I hadn’t pressed him for the details, his haunted expression and sleepless nights telling me all I needed to know. His father had known what he and Tristan had been up to, and had sacrificed himself in order to protect them.
Stretching my back, I stared up at the skylights of the solar, eyeing the sun glowing yellow and bright, warmth radiating down upon me. Not the real sun, of course, but one of Marc’s creation, wrought with magic and talent. It illuminated the dozens of plants and flowers filling the room with their natural scent and earthiness. They were all grown in hothouses in Trianon, then brought to Trollus with great difficulty, but Marc insisted upon purchasing them. It made him feel better, I thought, to surround me with life, and I absently pressed a hand against the slight curve of my stomach, the presence of magic not my own the greatest comfort of all.
A flicker of motion caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to watch a petal fall from a lily to join the others on the tabletop. Lowering my brush, I stared at the plant, and the others, all slowly dying in the darkness of Trollus, the magic required to keep them alive and thriving lost to iron and mortality.
“An expensive habit.”
My hand twitched, a drop of paint falling to stain the silk of my skirts. My father stood just inside the doorway, gloved hand curved around a dying rose bloom. Though he’d shown me nothing but kindness and courtesy since my bonding, would not, I knew, lay a hand on me given I was bonded to the King’s nephew, trepidation still prickled along my skin. Only a fool would believe he was through with me yet.
Rising to my feet, I curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“Now, now. None of that.” Crossing the room, he took my elbow and pushed me gently down onto my stool before pulling another next to me and settling onto it, cane balanced across his knees. “Don’t strain yourself on my account, dearest.”