Hidden Huntress

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Excellent.” Her voice was low and full of satisfaction. “She and her predecessors have long supported the opera. I’m pleased Marie intends to maintain the relationship.”

  My head jerked up and down, but my mind shouted something quite different. Marie knew I was a witch and she knew about the trolls, I was sure of it. But then why invite me to perform? Why not lock me in a dungeon or burn me at the stake like every other witch the Regency caught? What did she want from me? How much did she know?

  We’ll be watching every move you make… We’ll be watching… We’ll… As the words repeated themselves, a theory began to form in my mind. An idea that should have sent me running as fast and far as my feet would take me. But instead a wicked anticipation like nothing I’d felt before fueled my stride.

  I’ve found her.

  Fifteen

  Tristan

  “Item fourteen!” The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the market, voice magnified by a simple but effective trick of magic. I watched, but I didn’t see. I listened, but I didn’t hear. It was merely a place to be while I thought.

  I’d heard nothing since leaving Marc in the depths of the mines. That meant the worst had not happened – he hadn’t sunk so low as to wreak vengeance upon Trollus, nor found some way to contrive to end his life. Which didn’t mean he was well, and certainly didn’t mean he’d forgiven me, but I’d take it. My problems were stacked high enough that even small blessings were a relief.

  Something struck me in the backs of my calves, and I turned to see a troll woman limping slowly away. It had been her cane that had hit me, and I did not think it had been an accident. Sure enough, she glanced over her shoulder, expression far from apologetic. I recognized her as the sculptor called Reagan. She was a nasty-spirited creature, but had gained a certain notoriety for the Guerre sets she made for the upper classes.

  “Female, age twenty-six, scaled at five.” the auctioneer shouted, the number catching my attention back to the stage. Half-bloods scaled at more than a four were rare to see at the auctions – their sales were normally conducted privately. That the woman was being sold here indicated something about her was undesirable.

  “House born and trained!”

  But no mention of which house, which meant they did not care to be associated with her. One of the auction workers snapped a lash of magic at the woman’s feet, and she jumped before following the instruction to walk the length of the stage and back. To my eyes, she looked normal enough. No obvious deformities, twitches, or signs of madness. She kept her face lowered, as any house trained servant would, but I was close enough to see the tears dripping off her chin.

  “Reads and writes in four languages! Takes dictation with an excellent hand.”

  Which meant nothing to any of the buyers here. Her power made her too expensive for bourgeoisie who might use her skills, and whatever she’d done made her unpalatable to the upper classes. The Miners’ Guild would take her, I was sure of it.

  “Proven breeder.”

  And there it was. An indiscretion, and it would not matter whether it was voluntary or not.

  “We’ll start at fifty!”

  The bidding began fast and furious, but my attention snapped away from the proceedings as I felt a familiar and impressive amount of power coming up behind me. Turning round, I came face to face with my brother. On his arm was the impostor, and behind her, the Duke d’Angoulême.

  “Your Highness.” I inclined my head slightly. He had always been fond of any show of subservience or reminder that he was a royal. And it was always best to placate him – to do otherwise invited disaster, and with my manacles on, I was in no position to do anything about it. I ignored the impostor and Angoulême.

  “Tristan.” Roland’s eyes gleamed bright and unblinking, but he didn’t seem to be of a mind to make trouble.

  The impostor glared at me, clearly waiting to be acknowledged. “You should show courtesy to your betters,” she snapped.

  I flicked my gaze to her. “That’s true.” I did not move and said nothing more. Roland tittered softly, shifting from one leg to another. “He’s right, lady Anaïs,” he said. “For all he’s done, Tristan is still a Montigny, and that makes him better than you.”

  The mask of Anaïs’s face seemed to quiver, and my pulse quickened the second I thought the illusion might fracture enough to reveal who was underneath. But she regained control, inclining her head to Roland. “Of course you are right, Your Highness. I meant only that Tristan owes more courtesy to the future king of Trollus.”

  That hadn’t been what she meant at all. I glanced at Angoulême, but his arms were crossed, eyes on the woman on the auction block.

  Roland was rubbing his chin with one gloved finger. “That’s true, Anaïs.” He dropped his hand to the child-sized sword hanging from his waist. “Bow.”

  Fighting back a sigh, I did so. “Forgive my lapse, Your Highness.”

  My brother smirked. “You are forgiven.”

  I had thought the impostor would be pleased to see me so lowered, but when I straightened, I found she wasn’t looking at me, but rather at the girl on the platform. Nevertheless, her expression was pleased. “Will you watch with me, Highness?” she said, tugging on his arm.

  “I suppose.” Roland grudgingly allowed himself to be led closer to the platform, the crowd parting for him, all eyes nervous.

  “Are you sure it’s wise having him near this many half-bloods?” I muttered to Angoulême.

  “He won’t do anything I don’t want him to.”

  It was a strange thing to be so certain about. I eyed Angoulême curiously, wondering when he had last spoken so forthrightly. Indeed, he hardly seemed to be paying any attention to me at all, the blank expression he wore clearly driven by some other cause.

  “Sold!” the auctioneer shouted. “For two hundred three gold pieces to the Miners’ Guild.” The Anaïs impostor clapped her hands once, the outburst strange enough that even Roland eyed her uncertainly.

  Angoulême closed his eyes for one, two, three heartbeats, and when they opened, they were full of an emotion I’d never seen on his face. It dawned on me why he was here, and why he was ignoring me.

  “How long do you suppose she’ll last down there?” I asked quietly, watching the crying half-blood trip off the platform. “House born. House trained. Nearly as pampered as the ladies she served.”

  Angoulême slowly turned his head to meet my gaze. “What makes you think that is any concern of mine?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “It certainly seems to concern her.” I jerked my chin in the impostor’s direction, finding myself unable to even call her by Anaïs’s name.

  “Yes.” He turned to look at the pair. “I suppose I have that much to thank you for, Tristan. Your betrayal has well and truly turned Anaïs from your cause. She is now every bit the daughter I had hoped for. And more.”

  He didn’t know it wasn’t her. The impostor had managed to fool even Anaïs’s own father. How blind was Angoulême that he couldn’t see the impostor for what she was? I opened my lips to say as much; to, in one fell swoop, foil whatever it was my father was planning. “What…” I broke off. As much as I wanted to reveal the impostor, doing so without understanding my father’s intentions might be a mistake.

  She and Roland walked back up to us, but Angoulême ignored them. “What…” He raised one eyebrow at me. I decided to go another route.

  “What happened to the child?”

  Angoulême’s face went purple with fury. “Unlike your father,” he spat, “I do not suffer such abominations to live.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the impostor jerk as if she’d been slapped.

  The puzzle pieces fell into place, and in that instant, I knew who’d stolen Anaïs’s life.

  Sixteen

  Tristan

  Lessa.

  “Anaïs, come!” Angoulême turned on his heel and stalked away, not waiting to see if she and Roland followed.

  I bowed
low again to my brother, forcing a hint of irritation onto my face to hide my astonishment. How had our father convinced her to play this part? As far as I knew, she hated him. He’d abandoned her to the law and fate without a second thought – letting her live a life of servitude while the rest of her blood were served. But perhaps she hated Angoulême even more? His views on the half-bloods made my father’s look moderate, and she’d lived in his household for almost her entire life. Perhaps what my father had offered her was a chance for revenge?

  Were there no limits to his power? Even now, after everything that had happened, the extent of my father’s machinations still amazed me. He seemed able to predict every move that not only I, but everyone else made. He had a plan for every possible circumstance, and the strategies he had in place seemed endless. He had an endgame for every game, and the entire city, perhaps even the entire Isle dancing to his tune. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d almost admire his genius.

  I watched the auction with glazed eyes, half my mind noting the half-bloods being marched across the stage and sold to the highest bidder, while the other half puzzled through my problems, all of which affected those who mattered to me most. No matter how I laid the puzzles out, I could not seem to solve a single one. No allegiance was certain. No motivation obvious. And at the center of everything was my father, and it seemed to me that in order to solve any of these puzzles, I needed to solve him.

  And to do that, I would need help.

  * * *

  “I was wondering when you’d bother to visit. Seems to me you’ve been too busy learning to boil eggs and darn socks than to visit your poor old aunt.”

  “It is good to see you too,” I said, waiting for the Duchesse Sylvie’s guard – who had reluctantly announced me – to leave. “And you are neither old nor poor.”

  One of her eyebrows rose. “Dear, then?”

  “Dear to me,” I replied, bowing low. “But it would seem I have fallen out of your favor if you have knowingly left me to dine on the results of my scavengings. It is I who am the poor one.”

  “Still a smart mouth on you. Élise!” She shouted the half-blood’s name at the top of her lungs, despite the fact the girl stood only a few paces away. I had been relieved to see she was well and that my aunt had taken her back under her wing after my ill-fated coup.

  “Fetch His Highness something to eat. I’ll have some of whatever you bring, so mind you only spit in his portion.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Élise curtseyed deeply. “I’ll ensure you have separate plates.”

  Apparently I had a few more apologies to make.

  Élise hesitated before leaving. “Would Her Majesty…”

  My aunt silently shook her head, waving her off. Strange...

  I circled the chaise my mother sat upon so that I might see her better. Part of me wished that I had not. Mother’s normally serene face was lined with tension, the muscles in her jaw clenched so tightly that they bulged. Her eyes fixed on some unseen thing, her pupils dilated wide and her brow furrowed. Her hands sat in her lap, kneading each other so hard that red marks rose and faded on her flesh. “Mother?” I asked hesitantly. I had never seen her like this, not ever.

  If she heard me, she showed no sign of it.

  “Mother?” I started to reach for her, but a coil of my aunt’s magic caught my arm.

  “Have a care, Tristan. She is of an ill temper.”

  Was this my doing? Was she upset with me? Of all those I’d worried about angering with my actions, my mother hadn’t been one of them. Never mind that her mind was not entirely in this world, she had never been cross with me in all my life. And there had certainly been times I’d deserved it.

  You attacked your own father, a voice whispered inside my head. You almost killed him. She might have died, and your aunt along with her. What did you expect?

  Not this.

  Cautiously, I moved into her line of sight, keeping my magic ready to defend myself if need be. She’d never tried to harm me, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. It certainly didn’t mean she couldn’t – weak women did not become queens of Trollus. “Mother?” Every inch of me singing with tension, I tentatively touched her shoulder.

  She flinched, and I jerked my hand back, hardly noticing the jolt of pain in my wrist. Please don’t let it come to this, I silently prayed. Please don’t let her have turned on me.

  “Tristan?” Her eyes focused on my face, all the tension and fury washing away in a flood. “You’re here!”

  “I am.” I tried to smile, but my face felt incapable of it. “Are you angry with me?” The question came out before I even knew I was thinking it.

  “Why should I be angry with you?” Her face managed to be guileless and unreadable at the same time.

  My mouth went dry, and I struggled with what to say to her. “Because I have not been a good son.”

  Her eyes drifted, and not for the first time, I wondered what it was she saw. What she heard. What she thought. There was a rumor that my mother’s mind was half through the door to Arcadia, and that it walked through the lands of endless summer, which lent her serenity. It was a pretty thought – far better than to believe she was just another victim of the inbreeding and iron slowly poisoning us all.

  It also provided a potential explanation for how the fey were able to communicate with my aunt. It was they who provided the foretellings: though they could not come to this world, it did not mean they could not watch. I wondered what they had seen that made them believe my and Cécile’s union could end the curse. I wished I could ask them, but even if I could, I knew they’d give me naught but riddles in response.

  A shudder abruptly ran through my mother, and her face twisted back into the unfamiliar mask. “Leave me be.”

  “But…”

  “Leave me be!” I recoiled from her shrill shriek, stumbling over my own boots as I backed away.

  “Let her be, Tristan.” My aunt’s voice sounded weary. “Come and sit with me.”

  On numb feet, I made my way back around and sat down. The dozen mirrors in the room reflected an image that betrayed nothing of how I felt. “What has happened to her?” I demanded. “Who has done this to her? Was it me? Is this my fault?”

  Aunt Sylvie regarded me for a long moment. “How is Cécile feeling?”

  “Never mind Cécile,” I snapped. “Tell me what is wrong with my mother!”

  Her head tilted slightly, her eyes boring into mine. “I always liked her, you know. Little spitfire of a thing. Not one easily led, so I imagine she’s not pleased about the yoke your father managed to place around her neck.”

  I opened my mouth to demand she answer my questions and to quit changing the subject, but realization dawned, and I clamped my teeth shut. “Physically, she is well,” I finally said. “But these last days she has rarely been herself.”

  “Her will is at odds with his compulsion.”

  I nodded slightly. “A ceaseless tension.”

  “Do you feel it?” She asked the question as though it were the idle curiosity of one who had never been bonded.

  “At its worst, it seems it is not her mind that suffers, but my own.”

  She sniffed. “How taxing.”

  And there it was – I had answered my own question. The emotions my mother was feeling were not her own – they were my father’s. My mind skittered and tripped over the implications – not only was something angering him terribly, it was bad enough to affect my mother. For the first time since my imprisonment, I started to wonder if perhaps my father wasn’t as in control of Trollus as I had thought.

  “It is better than not knowing,” I said, settling back more comfortably in the chair, pushing aside my concerns so that my mind was wholly on our double conversation. It was always this way with her – she would not tell me outright anything that would betray my father’s confidence. I didn’t know – and would never ask – if she did this out of courtesy to my mother or because he had forced a promise from her at some point in the pa
st. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter. The information I needed would be hidden in everything she did or said; it was up to me to extract it and put it together.

  “Is it?” She tugged at the sleeve of her dress. “I should think that it would at times be worse – knowing how someone was feeling, but not the cause. You’ve been what now, three months parted?” She shook her head. “Strange how time manages to both accumulate and fade.”

  She did not know the full extent of what troubled my father, but whatever it was had been mounting since my incarceration. Time was of the essence.

  “It seems like longer,” I said. “I miss her terribly.”

  One eyebrow rose in acknowledgment of my uncharacteristic frankness, but she did not seem surprised. “Do you still wish to play?” She gestured at the Guerre boards sitting in their rack, but it was not the game of which she spoke.

  I said nothing for long enough for my silence to be significant. “I will play,” I said. “But only because there is no other worthy opponent.”

  “It’s in your blood,” she replied.

  The four primary boards floated off their rack, the pieces lifting out of their boxes. They were new, I noticed, elaborately carved out of black onyx and white marble. Undoubtedly Reagan’s work. “Shall we start where the game was left off?”

  I nodded, my pulse quickening as I watched to see how she would place the players.

  The pieces circled the boards. Kings and queens. Princes and princesses. Warriors, spies, tricksters, nobles, assassins, half-bloods, and tiny humans went round and round. “You play the white.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I nodded for the benefit of those who spied on us.

  White pieces rained down onto the carpet, accompanied by only a few black. “You’re losing,” she said.

  “But I haven’t lost.”

  “Not yet.” Her voice was cool, eyes unreadable as the players settled into their places. The black players were thick on the board – not representing her, but my father. Only a handful of white remained. The king, four warriors, and one human. I stepped closer to look at them, recognizing my own face carved onto the king, and those of Marc, Anaïs, Victoria, Vincent, and Cécile. I touched the piece representing my wife, marble curls hanging down her back and an amused smile on her face. Instead of the cudgel usually wielded by a human piece, she held an open book out in front of her.