Hidden Huntress

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Is the game laid correctly?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “I lost her.” I pointed to the female warrior, hair blown back in an imagined wind, sword raised in defiance. The piece floated off and settled gently on the table, her onyx twin rising to settle itself amongst my father’s players. “No.” I snatched the piece off, my eyes searching until I found a female spy on the carpet. “Her.” I set the piece next to the black king.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. There is no doubt.”

  Crystal clinked, and two glasses of pale wine made their way over. I accepted mine, holding it absently with a filament of magic while I considered the board. Plucking a male half-blood off the carpet, I set it next to Vincent’s piece. Tips.

  “But you lost this one, no?” She lifted Marc’s hooded warrior and started to set it aside.

  “Not yet!” My voice was too loud, too heated. I forced myself to relax. “His fate is yet uncertain.”

  “Hmm.” She sipped at her wine. “I will have to take your word on that.”

  Ice ran through me. Had something more happened to Marc that I didn’t know about? If she knew for certain that he was lost, she wouldn’t have let me keep the piece, but I did not like the doubt in her voice.

  “We are in agreement?”

  “We are.” It all looked so hopeless, laid out like this. My father stood next to his queen and a tiny crowned prince, surrounded by all his other key players. I had only four allies, all of which were in some sort of jeopardy.

  “A bleak position you are in, Your Highness,” she said. “What are the options for the white?” Her tone was lecturing, as though she were still teaching me the game. But she wasn’t. The question was legitimate.

  “Political positioning.” In the game, it was a risky move that involved maneuvering your king into a specific position among your opponent’s players. If done correctly, you could replace every one of the players within range with your own pieces. But if you executed your strategy poorly, you could lose your most powerful player.

  “Do you see a strategy that would have them in the position to listen?”

  “Some of them.” I moved Tips’s piece to the second board.

  “Only the weaker players would be in position to hear. It isn’t enough to win.”

  I no longer saw the half-bloods as weak, especially as a group, but she was right. “Agreed.” I cracked my neck from side to side. “Assassination.”

  “You have no assassin.”

  “True.” I nudged my own piece. “But I have a player who could manage the task.”

  She sniffed. “Risky, and even if the black king fell, the crowned prince is still in play. You would not have won.”

  I looked at the tiny representation of Roland, half-imagining I could see the madness in his onyx gaze. “I know. It would take more than one assassination.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I turned my attention from the pieces to my aunt. She obviously thought there was another option, but nothing on her face told me what it was.

  “You should enjoy your wine while we still have it,” she said, sipping hers. “It will become a dear thing if circumstances continue as they have.”

  “A fair point.” And an obvious one. What was she getting at? Even though it was tasteless to do so, I lifted the glass to my lips using my magic and took a long swallow. My wrists hurt like the fire of the damned after my scuffle with Marc, and even the weight of a wine glass was enough strain to make me feel sick. I did not care to admit it, but the manacles were starting to have a marked impact on me. The tips of my fingers had turned slightly blue and my hands grew stiffer by the day. If they remained on much longer, the damage might be permanent.

  Taking another mouthful, I lowered the glass.

  My aunt’s lip curled and she clucked loudly. “The next thing will be elbows on the table at dinner. Your father would have a fit if he knew you were behaving so.”

  As if my father cared about my manners. What was she implying? That he’d be upset that the torture devices I wore under his orders were harming me? Surely not. If anything, he would be glad that they were finally having their desired effect. “I think it might please him.”

  “Do you now?” Her eyes flicked to the board, where all the answers lay. I walked in a circle around the four boards, examining my father’s pieces instead of my own. Familiar and expected faces graced the players; expected at least, until I encountered my own. In onyx, I was still a prince, but the piece sat on a square rimmed with steel, which meant that it was not lost, but unplayable. There were several other pieces set up in a strategy to free it, but they were still many moves away from their goal. Leaning closer, I saw tiny grooves on the black prince’s brow where a crown had once sat.

  And might sit again.

  If I was interpreting the game correctly, my father still considered me one of his players. He had strategies in place to return me to my rank as crown prince and heir, but only on his terms. The piece was onyx – it was his. To regain my position, I would have to be his puppet.

  I stepped back to my place across from her. “That piece will not come back into play. I still maintain that the only strategy the white has left is to regain those players” – I gestured at the half-bloods – “with politics, and then maneuver to assassinate the black king.”

  “And it might work,” she said, “if it did not play in so well to the third player’s strategy.”

  Third player?

  Two more boards lifted from the racks off to the side and came over to join our four. With them came another case of players, of which she selected several pieces to set on the boards, none of which were half-blood or human. The pieces were made of garnet, the red jewel glittering in the light.

  Angoulême.

  “Your new Guerre set is well made,” I said, stalling. It was perfectly made for the purposes of this conversation, but it would have taken months for an artist to craft. How had she known it would be needed?

  Setting my wine glass down on the table, I lifted the onyx spy representing Lessa-as-Anaïs, and set it down next to the garnet duke. My aunt nodded slightly, and Roland’s onyx piece floated over to join them, garnet warriors lining up around him to show the piece as captured.

  “Correct?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, but the memory of Roland walking with Lessa and Angoulême troubled me. He had certainly not been under guard, and he had not looked discontented with his position. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Then if the white follows through with your suggested strategy…” Marble half-bloods replaced onyx and the black king toppled off the boards, his crown detaching to float over and replace the simple circlet on Roland’s head. “The red now controls the black players, and they are all now aligned against the white.”

  Which put me in a worse position. I inhaled, then let the air out slowly. “The white could rescue the new black king.”

  “Are you sure?” Her face sagged, crinkling in a way I’d never seen before. The black crown lifted off the onyx Roland’s head, and he floated away. His garnet twin lifted out of its case, coming to rest on the board, the black crown settling on his head.

  “No,” I whispered. “That cannot be. It cannot…”

  The shattering of glass interrupted me, and what I’d been about to say ceased to matter as every mirror in the room exploded, the air filling with a million shards of razor-sharp glass and the sound of my mother’s piercing scream.

  Seventeen

  Cécile

  The chaotic noise of the musicians warming up filtered through the door of my dressing room, adding to the air of tension found backstage before any performance. I was on tenterhooks too, but for different reasons: I was convinced Marie du Chastelier had some sort of association with Anushka, and that she knew who I was. That I was working for the troll king. That I was hunting her.

  The idea had tickled at my mind that despite the lack of resemblance to the portrait I’d seen, that maybe
she was Anushka. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that couldn’t be the case. Marie was too visible – she was the daughter of a minor but exceptionally wealthy noble family. Her birth and childhood were a matter of record, witnessed by many.

  Anushka likely altered her appearance with hair dye, cosmetics, and magic, but she couldn’t disguise herself as an infant or a child. She’d been in her twenties when she’d cursed the trolls, and though she’d found a way to stop herself from aging, she still remained a woman grown. It would have been necessary to disappear and start new lives continually, or those around her would notice that she never aged. Taking on roles where her face would be well known would have been impossible – the risk of being discovered by the trolls or persecuted for witchcraft would be too great.

  Unless those who would persecute her were actually protecting her. I chewed my lip, thinking. If the Regent and his predecessors knew about the trolls, and I had my suspicions that they did, given they maintained the title of regent rather than adopting that of king, it was in their best interest to help Anushka keep the trolls contained. Which meant they’d do anything they could to keep her safe.

  And yet Lady Marie had selected me to perform in her masque, had invited me into her home. Was it a matter of keeping her friends close, but her enemies closer? Or had the hunter become the hunted? Clichés, but my gut told me that at least one, if not both, were apt.

  Sabine jerked hard on my hair. “Ow,” I muttered, grimacing at her in the reflection of the mirror.

  She was braiding my hair so that it would fit under the cheap brown wig of the minor role I played tonight, her blonde ringlets bouncing each time she jerked a strand of my hair into place. It was the first time I’d seen her since our confrontation over the potion she’d given Julian, and there was an uneasy silence between us. She kept her eyes fixed on the back of my head, refusing to look into the mirror lest she accidentally meet my gaze, and it gave me the opportunity to scrutinize her without her noticing.

  She had changed.

  I could not say whether it had happened while I was in Trollus or since we had come to Trianon, but my friend looked older. The full cheeks of childhood had melted away to reveal delicate features, and while she was not beautiful in the way Anaïs was, Sabine was the sort of pretty that appealed to men and women alike. Her blonde hair was always neatly coifed, and her skill with a needle and thread ensured that even with her limited budget, she was always well dressed. But that wasn’t what was bothering me.

  My brow furrowed as I juxtaposed my memory of the girl with the reality of the young woman standing behind me. Sabine had always been a people-pleaser – she liked doing what made others happy, even if doing so caused her grief. During my recovery from my injury, she’d visited me every day, helping Gran take care of me and tolerating my moody silences with the patience of a saint. When I announced my intention to go to Trianon, she’d insisted on accompanying me despite the fact she’d never shown any interest in leaving the Hollow before.

  “What?” Her voice was sharp, and I flinched. Apparently I wasn’t the only angry one.

  “I was thinking about how you’ve changed.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.” She jammed the wig down on my head, forcibly shoving wisps of red hair underneath it.

  “What do you mean?”

  She was quiet for a long time before speaking. “Everyone thought you were dead.” There was a hint of unsteadiness in her voice. “Do you have any idea what it felt like knowing that my best friend had died because of me?”

  I could not have been more blindsided if I’d been smacked in the face with a fence post. “What?” I spluttered. “That’s nonsense. What could you have done?”

  “Exactly.” She was shaking. “I could have ridden with you. Or made you wait until Fred reached the Hollow. Something. Anything.” Her words were choked, like she couldn’t get enough air into her chest to get them out properly. “But instead I let my fears get in the way, and I lost you.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Tristan had told me how badly she’d taken my disappearance, but I’d thought it was only grief. I’d never considered that she might blame herself for what happened. Worse yet, what she’d thought had been her decision hadn’t been. I had assumed she’d refuse to ride with me and compelled her choice, even if I hadn’t known what I’d been doing at the time. Even if I had died some accidental death, it wouldn’t have been her fault. It would have been my own.

  But would it have changed the course of events if she had ridden with me? Would her presence have kept Luc from kidnapping me and dragging me under the mountain? No, I decided quickly. At best, he would have waited for another opportunity to snatch me away, and at worst… A vision of Sabine lying dead on the ground filled my eyes, and I blinked it away furiously. It was better that events had happened as they did. “Sabine, I didn’t give you the cho…”

  She held up a hand, cutting me off. “And then you came back, and I was happier than I’d ever been in my whole life. You were alive.” She pressed her palm to her forehead as though to force down a memory. “And when you told me what had happened, I hated them so much. Hated them for what they had done to you, to your family. To me.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides. “But you didn’t hate them. Quite the opposite, you were in love with one of them.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “And I don’t understand it, Cécile. They hurt you, took away everything from you, and even though you escaped, it seems like you’ll never be free of them. They’ve stolen your future, robbed you of everything you had a passion for – and so how can you blame me for trying to at least liberate your heart from their clutches.”

  I didn’t blame her. Nor could I quite explain to her that I’d gained as much as I’d lost while I was in Trollus, without making it seem that I valued one life over another. I had been hurt. I’d made sacrifices. But I did not feel bereft.

  “I…”

  A knock sounded on the door, and a second later, Julian leaned inside. “It’s time,” he said, his eyes shifting between us. Sabine pushed past him, and with a sigh, I followed.

  My mother was waiting outside the door, her brow furrowed as she watched Sabine weave her way through the chaos of backstage. “That girl has a spirit for stirring up trouble,” she said, turning to the two of us. “It may be time for her to find employment elsewhere.”

  My skin flushed hotly, and I jabbed a finger against my mother’s chest. “Leave. Her. Alone.”

  Genevieve’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I mean it, Mother,” I said, glaring up at her. “If she leaves because of anything that you’ve done, I’ll quit. And not just the company – I’ll walk away from you, and I won’t look back.”

  Not waiting for her to respond, I stormed through the corridors to the foyer. There were still a handful of young gentlemen watching the dancers finish their warm-up, but most had retreated to their boxes as the performance was about to begin. A few of the girls gave me curious glances, but no one troubled me.

  Was it an idle threat, or had I meant what I said to my mother? I wasn’t sure. My eyes flicked over the portraits of the famous women who had graced the stage and my stomach clenched at the idea of willingly giving up my dream of standing amongst them. I mouthed the names written on little plaques beneath the paintings in a silent plea for guidance. My mother’s I ignored, but I paused when a familiar name passed my lips. Lise Tautin. My grandmother.

  I touched the spot on my throat where the necklace she was pictured wearing usually hung, but it was in my dressing room. I had no memory of her – she’d gone missing when I was very young. Her hair was blonde and her eye color indistinct, yet I could see my mother in the arch of her cheeks and the coolness of her gaze. But I didn’t have time to give it much thought before I was caught up in the exodus from the foyer. Finding my spot among the chorus, I watched as ballerinas dressed as harem girls exited the stage, their shoes making soft little thuds as they ran past me. It was time to go on
.

  Adjusting the basket across my elbow, I linked arms with one of the girls, and then we strolled out onto the set staged as an exotic spice market, warm with the heat of the audience rather than the desert sun. I sang and skipped and spun, the words rising instinctively to my lips as I matched the volume and sound of the other girls. The audience was a faceless blur, the colors brilliant, the lights bright as we set the scene.

  Then my mother walked onto the stage, her voice dominating the theatre. She sang, and the rest of us were silent, relegated to the backdrop. The girls of the chorus tempted her with their wares, jewelry, spices, and all manners of delicacies. Then it was my turn. I stepped in front of her, holding out my basket of wax fruit for her to see. Still singing, she selected an apple, which I pretended to refuse payment for. As I retreated to the backdrop, something caught my eye.

  A flash of light. Motion in the Regent’s private box. No one was allowed to sit in there unless accompanied by the Regent or his family. I’ll be watching every move you make… Marie’s voice whispered across my thoughts. Was she alone, or was Anushka with her?

  I wanted to stare, but that would mean breaking character, so I couldn’t. One of the other girls caught my arm, spinning me away, our voices chorusing my mother’s. My spine prickled. Even though I was in the middle of a stage, countless eyes upon me, I felt as though I were being stalked. It was all I could do to keep smiling, singing, and dancing, because I wanted to run. Every chance I had, I glanced toward the box, but it was too dark to say who sat within.