“How did you know I was here?” It hardly mattered, but it was the only thing I could think of to say.
“I didn’t. A runner brought word of a foul smell in the library, which the librarians feared was a sluag.” He glanced around at the stacks. “I’ve spent many a long hour in these hallowed halls, so I took it upon myself to personally deal with the problem.” One eyebrow rose. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was my dear daughter-in-law who was the source of the stink.”
“Sewers.” My mind raced, trying and failing to come up with some way to extricate myself from his clutches.
“Hmm.” He frowned. “They have been neglected in recent days, I’m afraid.”
“Why?” I asked. “Did you kill off all the half-bloods that cleaned them for you?”
“No, they abandoned me for my son.” His eyes went to Martin. “I do not feel you need to be privy to this conversation.”
Launching myself off the stool I’d perched on, I stepped between the librarian and the King. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”
Something that looked almost like hurt flickered through his eyes, but was gone in an instant. “Why would I? Good librarians are hard to come by.”
Martin said nothing, and when I turned my head, I saw that the King had encased him in an opaque box, effectively removing him from either hearing or witnessing the conversation. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Trying to figure out where the Duke is hiding so that we can capture him and stop Roland,” I said, sticking with the truth and saving my lies for when I needed them.
“Tristan is quite capable of stopping his brother,” he replied. “Why hasn’t he?”
“Why haven’t you?” I countered. “What happened to your plan to take the Isle peaceably?”
“You happened.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been informed the Regent is dead, killed by a lord allegedly under my control. Lord Aiden, under the directive of my son, has taken his father’s position, and together, they have formed an alliance against me, and against Roland and Angoulême.”
“That is correct,” I said, holding his gaze. “You are well informed.”
“I am.” He tilted his head. “And you, Cécile, are a liar. Aiden du Chastelier, having failed to deliver on his word to me, is likely little more than a drooling mess of madness at this point. Tristan has taken a page from my book, and has someone else masquerading as the lord. Is Aiden still alive?”
“And well,” I lied. “I worked a spell to temper your compulsion. It troubles him still, but not so much so that we cannot keep him in check.”
“If you knew of such a spell, you would’ve used it for yourself.”
“Yes, I would’ve,” I said. “But I didn’t know of it until after I was past needing it. Anushka showed me a good many things before she died.”
“As any mother should.”
Of course he knew. Was there anything he didn’t know?
“Why are you here, Cécile?” he asked. “Why did Tristan send you and his friends to dispatch Roland? And when you failed, why did he take the risk of sending you here in an attempt to discover Angoulême’s location? Why has he not dealt with Roland himself?”
With each question, he leaned closer, until the final one brought us almost nose to nose.
“He’s protecting Trianon,” I said. “We are going after the Duke because he’s an easier target.”
“Folly,” the King snarled. “Kill the Duke and Roland will be free to slaughter at will, which he is sure to do. Capture the Duke, and he will only order the boy to rescue him. This plan of yours is rife with flaws, and not one my son would ever agree to without more cause and justification than you’ve provided.”
“The Winter Queen sent a dragon to attack Trianon – the city needs to be protected.”
He grimaced as though my words were utter lunacy. “Tristan’s two clowns are quite capable of managing whatever that meddlesome trickster sends their way, and he knows it. Winter is…”
I shifted uneasily, and the King noticed, hissing out a breath between his teeth.
“Ah. Winter is the problem. That’s why he remains within the iron ring of the Regent’s castle.” He stared through me, eyes shifting as he thought. “What has she done to him?”
“Nothing.” I was afraid to say more, knowing he’d pick the truth out of whatever lies I spun. He was too intelligent. Too experienced with deception. A true mastermind of manipulation.
His gaze shifted to the spear in his hand. “The sluag.” His fist clenched around the steel. “A life-debt.”
I tensed and then swore silently for giving myself away. Not that it mattered – he knew.
“And what does that thrice-damned frigid bitch want from my son?”
His jaw tightened and the metal of the spear groaned, bending under his grip. I’d seen him irritated before. Angry, even. But nothing like this.