Hidden Huntress

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “My point is,” Chris continued, “that maybe you’ve done enough. Maybe it’s time for you to move on with your life.”

  I set my empty mug down with a clatter, not bothering to keep the anger off my face. I expected this from Sabine, but not from Chris. For her, it was still half a fairytale, but he’d been to Trollus. He knew the stakes. “Are you actually suggesting I give up?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked away. “He doesn’t even want you to break the curse. Maybe it would be better for everyone if you stopped hunting.”

  “Better for humans, you mean,” I snapped, my words slurring together. “How can you be so selfish?”

  Chris turned bright red. Hands gripping the edge of the table, he leaned toward me. “If you want to see selfish, go look in the mirror. I’m not the one willing to sell the whole world into slavery for the sake of a love affair!” He stormed away through the crowd of patrons and out of sight.

  I stared blindly at my empty mug, ignoring the dampness of spilled beer and wine soaking into the sleeves of my dress. Was Chris right? Was I being selfish? Two months ago, I set out to Trianon to hunt down and kill Anushka so that the curse would be broken. There had been no doubt in my mind that I was doing the right thing, and that certainty had been unwavering.

  Or had it?

  I wanted Tristan freed, that I knew. And my friends. Marc, the twins, Pierre, and the Duchesse Sylvie. Zoé and Élise. All the half-bloods, really. I wanted them free of the curse. But the others? I thought about Angoulême, King Thibault, and especially about Tristan’s demon of a little brother, and a cold sweat broke across my brow. Them I would be well and truly content to keep locked up for eternity.

  But that was the problem. If I released one, I released all, and the consequences would be on me. But so would the consequences of doing nothing.

  Pain twisted in my chest, and I shoved my mug across the table. I missed him. Not only for reasons of the heart, but as an ally. Missed watching his formidable and tenacious intelligence at work – that mind of his that I so greatly admired. What I would not give for his ability to see to the heart of a puzzle.

  The room spun as I looked around, making my stomach churn. I sucked in a deep breath to try to calm my senses and instantly regretted it. The stench of stale beer and sweat assaulted my nostrils and I gagged. “Bloody stones and sky.” Clambering to my feet, I pushed my way through the revelers, eyes fixed on the front door and fresh air.

  I wasn’t going to make it.

  I pushed harder, ignoring the complaints of those in my path. Reaching the door, I flung it open and staggered out into the cool air. Then I fell to my knees and retched up three flagons of beer into the gutter.

  “I must confess,” a voice said from behind me. “This wasn’t precisely the posture I expected to find you in.”

  Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I looked over my shoulder. A cloaked man stood a few paces behind me, face shadowed by his hood. “What do you want?”

  “Only to deliver a message.” His mouth widened into a smile. “To her Royal Highness, Princess Cécile de Montigny.”

  Two

  Cécile

  I rose unsteadily to my feet, the lace of my gloves catching on the brick wall as I grasped it for support. “Who are you?”

  “A messenger.”

  “From who?” I asked, though I already knew.

  “From his Majesty, King Thibault.” The man inclined his head. “He sends his warmest and most heartfelt greetings to his absent daughter-in-law. Trollus hasn’t been the same since your hasty departure.”

  “Are you here to kill me?” Was this the moment of reckoning?

  The messenger laughed. “Kill you? Certainly not. If I’d been here to kill you, you would already be dead. I’m not one to delay the inevitable.”

  “Then why?” I asked, feeling not at all reassured. “And how is it that you can speak of them at all?”

  “His Majesty would like…” he started to say, then Chris burst out the front door of the bar. “Cécile” he called, looking around wildly. His eyes fixed on me and the messenger. “Hey!” he shouted. “Leave her alone!”

  He started to run toward us, but I held up a warning hand. “He’s a messenger from the King.”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “What does he want?”

  The messenger eyed Chris like he’d expected him, his acceptance of Chris’s presence making me uneasy, because it meant he knew who my friend was. “His Majesty would like to meet with Cécile.”

  “No!” Chris burst out, almost drowning out my question, “When?”

  He smiled. “Tonight.”

  “Absolutely not,” Chris said. “There is no bloody way I’m letting you go back to Trollus.”

  “Only to the mouth of the River Road,” the messenger clarified. “The gates to Trollus remain closed to humans.”

  We’d known that. Although Chris’s father, Jérôme, was still bound by his oaths and unable to speak about Trollus, he’d enough practice working around his oaths to explain that trade was now conducted at the mouth of the river, and only by the King’s agents. The change effectively cut off our one source of news about what was going on inside the city.

  Chris shook his head. “Still too close.”

  “It isn’t your decision,” I said, my mind racing. What did the King want? Would Tristan be there? Would I get to see him? Even the chance was enough to make up my mind. “I’ll go.”

  “You can’t,” Chris hissed. “Tristan warned you never to come back. They’ll kill you!”

  I slowly shook my head. “No. If the King wanted me dead, I would be. He wants something else.” And I was willing to bet I knew exactly what it was.

  * * *

  The messenger escorted us out of the city and into the countryside where horses waited tethered in the trees. Despite the hour, the guards at the gates opened them for us without question, no doubt motivated by gold mined in the depths of Trollus.

  We moved at a steady pace, our path lit by the moon as it drifted out from behind dark patches of cloud. It was a good night for casting spells, the round silver disk in the sky magnifying the amount of power a witch could tap. Not that it would do me any good against the trolls.

  It was the darkest hour of the night by the time we cleared the trees and came into sight of the bridge spanning the rock fall. Our escort did not follow us as we dismounted and slowly picked our way down to the water.

  “What do you think they want?” Chris asked under his breath, holding my arm as I scrambled over some rocks. The tide was retreating, but it was still high enough that there was only a dozen feet of sand between the fallen boulders and the gentle waves. The stench of sewers was strong, the city releasing refuse only when the tide was high enough to wash away the evidence.

  “I think they want out.” Ahead, water poured out from under an overhang, the river carving a path through the sand down to where it met the ocean. Beneath that overhang was the entrance to Trollus, and further in, a single ball of light hovered, waiting. A reminder that here lay the gateway between worlds, the divide between reality and fantasy. A dream or, depending on who waited, a nightmare. Shoving my torch into the sand, I motioned for Chris to do the same, and then we cautiously made our way closer.

  A small troll child sat cross-legged in the middle of the road. He looked up at our approach, revealing a younger version of Tristan. Except for the curve of his lips… those reminded me of his half-sister, Lessa. The face of angel, but the mind of a monster.

  “Good evening, Your Highness,” I said, stopping a healthy distance from the barrier and dropping into a deep curtsey. “Bow,” I hissed under my breath.

  Prince Roland de Montigny cocked his head and eyed us as though we were insects. “Good evening, Cécile.”

  Why was Roland here? Where was the King?

  “It’s hard to see you there, standing in the dark,” he said. “Come closer.”

  I licked my parched lips. The barrier kept him caged, but I didn’
t want to go any nearer to the monster who’d nearly taken my life. Roland got to his feet. “Come closer,” he said. “I want to look at you.”

  “Stay here,” I murmured to Chris and, against all my instincts, walked toward the barrier. My heart raced and sweat trickled down my back. He was just a child, but I was utterly terrified of him. More so than even the King or Angoulême, because at least they were sane. No matter how calm and civilized he was pretending to be, the thing standing before me was not. He was mad, unpredictable, treacherous, and very, very dangerous.

  “Closer,” he crooned. “Closer.”

  My boots scraped along the ground as I inched forward, not certain precisely where the barrier lay. Abruptly, I felt the air thicken and I recoiled back a pace, heart in my throat. And like a snake whose prey has moved beyond reach, his little form relaxed, no longer poised to strike. He’d wanted me to come within reach so that he could finish what he started that fateful day in the Dregs.

  I held up my hand. “You can see well enough from there.”

  Roland ignored my hand and my words, but his lips pulled back, revealing little straight white teeth. “Scared?”

  Terrified.

  “Where is your brother?” I asked. “Where is Tristan?”

  Roland’s grin intensified. “They dug a special hole for him in prison.” He giggled, the sound of it high-pitched, childish, and horrifying. “He doesn’t get out much.”

  He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the apparent humor was too much for him and his giggles turned into shrieks of laughter that echoed through the tunnel. I took a step back and nearly collided with Chris, who’d worked his way closer during the exchange. His face was pale. Though I’d told him about Roland, nothing could have prepared him for such a creature.

  I turned back to Roland. “You find it amusing that your elder brother and heir to the throne is in prison?”

  The boy’s laughter cut off. “Tristan isn’t heir any longer. I am.”

  I shook my head, not so much to deny he was telling the truth, but more at the sheer horror of the devil in front of me one day ruling the kingdom. Either way, my denial incensed him.

  “I will be King!” he screamed, and flung himself at me. I leapt back, but my heel snagged on my dress and I toppled to the ground. Chris’s hands caught my arms and heaved me far out of reach, but not out of sight of Roland throwing himself over and over against the barrier, his fists splitting open and healing in an instant, his blood splattering the magic that caged him and rendering it visible. The rocks shook and trembled as his power hammered against the curse, muffling his screams. But nothing could spare us the feral rage written across his face – an expression void of any form of sanity.

  “Heaven help us,” Chris whispered, our hands locked together as we watched.

  The hammering stopped. Roland’s face smoothed into composure, and turning, he bowed low to the troll-light coming down the road. “Father.”

  The King walked into view. “You’re making a great deal of noise, boy.”

  Roland scowled. “She said Tristan was heir, not me.”

  “Did she now?” The King looked through the blood-splattered barrier and caught my eye. “Humans are liars, Roland. You know that. Now go back to the city. The Duke is waiting for you.”

  An answer that was no answer. There was hope for Tristan yet.

  Roland shot me one last triumphant look, then sped off into the darkness.

  “What do you want?” I asked, climbing to my feet. “Why did you have me brought here?”

  “Oh, I think you know why,” the King replied. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood off the barrier. He watched us with interest, but said nothing. I stared back until I could stand it no more. “Where is Tristan? I want to see him.”

  His chuckle drifted around me. “You’d make a poor politician, Cécile. You’re far too honest about your desires.”

  “I thought all humans were liars?”

  He shrugged. “True, but you are honest in spirit, which is more than I can say for myself. Or any troll, really.” His orb of light brightened until the tunnel shone like day. “One wants what one cannot have. And when one cannot lie, the ability to deceive becomes a far more meaningful talent. Something to be revered. But all this philosophizing is something better left to another day. I have what you want; and you, my dear, I believe to be capable of delivering what I want. What I propose is an exchange.”

  I shook my head rapidly. “I am not so stupid as to think it would be that simple, Thibault. Nor am I so selfish as to consider releasing you upon the world for the sake of one life.”

  Which was a lie. I considered it every waking minute.

  The King tilted his head and nodded slowly. “Tell me, Cécile, what exactly is it about my release that terrifies you so?”

  “Everything.” My voice sounded high-pitched and strange. “You’re a cruel, heartless tyrant. I’ve seen the way you rule – I know all about your laws. If I let you free, you’ll slaughter every last one of us.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” the King interrupted. “The last thing I intend is to wipe out humanity. I need your kind. Do you expect the Duke d’Angoulême to pick up the plow to work the field? Or your dear friend, Marc, the Comte de Courville, to lay paving stones day in and out?” He waved a hand at me as though my fears were utter madness. “Do not stand there and preach to me that the Regent of Trianon does not have laws, or that his aristocracy is any less dismissive of their commoners than we are of ours.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You call me a tyrant, but I can say that there isn’t one individual in Trollus who goes hungry or doesn’t have a roof over his head. Every last one of them is educated and employed. Can your regent claim as much?”

  I bit my lip. “What about freedom? The Regent allows no slavery on the Isle.”

  The King made a face. “Why don’t you go ask those starving in the Pigalle quarter how much their freedom is worth. Or those freezing to death in ditches along country roads.” He rested a hand against the barrier. “You would be exchanging one aristocracy for another. Those such as your father would still raise pigs and sell them at market. Your mother would still sing onstage for those who could afford a ticket. For most, very little about their lives would change.” He sighed deeply. “How much are you willing to sacrifice for your ungrounded fears?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Chris said from behind me. “He’s only acting in his own interests.”

  “And you aren’t, Christophe Girard?” The King spoke to Chris, but his gaze remained fixed on me. Gauging my reaction. “Don’t tell me,” he continued, “that you have not considered how you might benefit from keeping Cécile and my son separated.”

  “Tristan being freed is the least of my concerns,” Chris retorted, but their words washed over me unheard. Were my fears unfounded? I closed my eyes and remembered the paintings Tristan had shown me, depicting what life had been like for humanity under troll domination. Remembered the drawings of humans begging for salvation after the Fall and the atrocities that followed. Would it be the same under King Thibault? Better? Or worse? I clenched my teeth.

  But what he said next changed everything.

  “I have no intention of going to war to regain my kingdom,” the King said. “Power over the Isle will be ceded to me peacefully.”

  I felt my jaw drop open. “How can you claim such a thing?”

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “That is for me to know – I would not care for my plans to be disrupted. That,” he added, “might necessitate violence against your kind, which is something I wish to avoid. I’ve seen enough bloodshed, and I grow weary of it.”

  Of all the things I had expected him to say, that hadn’t been one of them: an offer of a peaceful resolution from the mouth of one who could not lie. Yet I could not find it in myself to believe him. Still, I’d be a fool not to try to discover the rest of his plans.

  “I’ve been looking for Anushka,” I said abru
ptly.

  The King nodded. “And tell me, Cécile, in what manner has your search differed from that of the thousands of men and women who have sought her over the past five centuries? Do you think we’ve not hunted down every rumor, searched every face, infiltrated even the most exclusive of circles? Do you think we haven’t searched out birth records or found someone who could account for the childhood years of every woman with a hazy past?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

  “You are unique, girl, and so should be your search,” he said softly.

  He meant magic. The trolls had likely never sent a witch after her before; and if they had, there was no way she was as committed as me.

  “I don’t know how,” I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from my voice. “And no one will teach me.” I had left all the grimoires in Trollus, and the handful of spells I could remember were useless in my search. I knew more than I had before, but that wasn’t saying much.

  The King reached into his coat, and my heart skipped as I recognized the cover of the book he removed: it was Anushka’s grimoire. He held the book through the barrier, and I reached for it eagerly, but before I could grab it, he pulled it back. “First I want your word.”

  A small smile made its way onto my face. “Afraid I’ll use her magic against you?”

  He waved the bloody handkerchief back and forth. “I believe you lack one of the requisite ingredients. No, before I give you this nasty bit of work, I want your word that you will use it to hunt down Anushka. That you will stop at nothing to find her and bring her to me here.”

  “Cécile, don’t!” Chris shouted. “If you promise him something, it will be binding.”