Stepsister

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I have a bottle of port,” Fate said with a sigh. “At least the fairy queen did not break that.”

  “A good vintage?”

  “I am too old to drink bad ones.”

  Chance rocked back on his heels, weighing her offer. “I do enjoy a good port.”

  Fate crossed the room and dug in her trunk once more. A pair of hand-blown goblets emerged. A porcelain platter. The port. A box of dried figs dipped in dark chocolate. Roasted almonds flecked with salt. A hunk of crumbly Parmesan wrapped in waxed cloth.

  “Do something useful,” Fate said. “Pull the chairs up to the fire.”

  One chair, squat, with soft cushions was already near the fireplace. Chance pushed it closer; then he carried over the wooden chair that stood by the table. He spied a stool and positioned it between them. Fate arranged the treats on the platter and set it on the stool. She poured two glasses of port and handed one to Chance.

  “This changes nothing,” she cautioned. “No quarter asked—”

  “None given,” Chance finished.

  “The skull is jet black. I doubt she will survive the night.”

  “As long as she still breathes, there is hope,” said Chance defiantly.

  Fate shook her head, muttering about fools and dreamers, but the two ancient adversaries sat down by the fire and enjoyed a brief truce in their eternal war. They drank a toast to foolish humans, who stumbled and fell, made more wrong choices than right ones, who broke their own hearts again and again but somehow managed to do one or two things right, fine port and good Parmesan among them.

  And out in the darkness, the fox ran, carrying the map in her mouth. Across the fields and over the stone walls she loped, through the tall grass and the brambles, until she came to a burned-out ruin and the linden tree that stood by it.

  She dropped the map down into the hollow at the tree’s base, then turned and sat, watching and waiting. Her thoughts were silent, known only to herself. But she sent them Isabelle’s way.

  Stop burdening the gods. Stop cursing the devil. They will make no path for you. They gave you their dark gifts: reason and will. Now you must make your own way.

  What’s done is done. Whether to you, or by you, and you cannot change it.

  But what’s not done is not done.

  And there, both hope and hazard lie.

  Believe that you can make your way. Or don’t. Either way, you are right.

  Every war is different, yet each battle is the same. The enemy is only a distraction. The thing you are fighting against, always, is yourself.

  “I’ll be right back, Nero. Stay here and don’t budge,” Isabelle whispered.

  She wanted to know who was in the Hollow. It was close to Saint-Michel and her family, and outlaws and deserters were dangerous. One had stolen from her and almost killed her.

  Isabelle knotted her skirts up and waded into the water. Luckily it wasn’t too high, only up to her knees. Her boots were getting soaked, and the slipper Felix had made for her, too, but she didn’t dare remove them and leave them on the bank. Without them, she moved slowly, and she might need to run. When she reached the other side, she scrambled up the bank, which was steep and loamy. She grabbed gnarled tree roots to pull herself up it. She was careful to be quiet as she climbed, not wanting to alert anyone to her presence. As she reached the top of the bank and peered over it, she sucked in a sharp breath. Before her were tents, hundreds of them. Not in neat rows but dotted over the ground. They were made of dark cloth and blended in perfectly with the trees.

  Then she saw men. They were wearing uniforms. Talking in low voices. Cleaning rifles. Sharpening bayonets.

  There must be a thousand of them. Are they the king’s army? What are they doing here? she wondered.

  Snatches of conversations drifted over to her, but they were so broken, they made no sense.

  After a few minutes, though, she was able to piece the fragments together, and they did. And then terror squeezed the breath out of her.

  The men were an army, yes, but not the king’s army.

  They were Volkmar’s.

  Isabelle dashed for cover behind a large tree, her heart thumping.

  After a few seconds, she peered out from it and bit back a cry. One of the soldiers was heading right for her, a glowing cigar clamped in his teeth. Had he seen her? She ducked behind the rock again, trying to make herself as small as possible.

  The man stopped just short of her hiding place. Then he planted his feet in the dirt and relieved himself. Isabelle didn’t move; she didn’t breathe.

  While he was still hosing down the other side of the tree, several of his fellow soldiers called to him. Isabelle heard the name Volkmar over and over. The men’s voices were low but excited.

  Finally, the soldier buttoned his trousers and rejoined his friends. Isabelle’s entire body sagged with relief. She risked another peek at the enemy’s camp. Every soldier was hurrying from his tent to the center of the camp.

  Why? she wondered. What’s happening?

  Isabelle knew she should run. She should get away while she had the chance. What could she possibly do? She was alone. Defenseless. Just a girl.

  Like Elizabeth, a voice inside her said. Like Yennenga. Abhaya Rhani. They were just girls once, too.

  She stepped out from behind the tree and, crouching low, made her way between the tents into the heart of the enemy encampment.

  Inside her, the wolf stopped gnawing. He became still. Tensed.

  Ready.

  They were gathered in a large circle, several rows deep.

  A man was standing in the center, speaking. Isabelle couldn’t see him—the soldiers blocked her view—but she could hear him.

  If someone sees me … If I’m caught … , fear yammered at her.

  She silenced it and tried to figure out how to get closer.

  There was a boulder up ahead. She would be able to see over the men if she climbed it, but if one of them turned around, he would see her, too. Then she spotted a pine tree. Its lower branches were bare, but the upper ones were thickly needled. If she got up high enough, she could see without being seen. A tent, wood-framed, larger than the others, stood near the tree. It would block her from view as she made her way up the trunk.

  It had been years since Isabelle had scaled a tree, but it came right back to her. She made her way up through the branches easily and silently, just as she had when she and Felix were pretending to climb the mast of Blackbeard’s ship. Higher and higher she climbed. When she was certain no one could see her, she slowly pressed down on a branch, lowering it slightly to give herself an unobstructed view.

  Several lanterns had been placed in the center of the circle. The light they gave illuminated a man wearing a tricorne hat. His dark hair, shot through with gray, was tied in a ponytail underneath it. A traveling cloak swirled about him as he moved. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a commanding stride. A scar ran down one cheek. Lantern light glittered in his violent eyes.

  Volkmar, she said silently, her heart nearly shuddering to a stop.

  He’s here.

  Isabelle sat motionless, watching as Volkmar talked.

  He was telling his men to attack Saint-Michel. They were going to slaughter every last person in the village, like they’d done in Malleval. That’s why there were so many of them.

  Volkmar finished talking and swept his arm out before him. As he did, another man appeared. He stood at the edge of the lantern’s light, flanked by half a dozen of Volkmar’s soldiers.

  Isabelle’s hand came up to her mouth. No, she thought. God help us, no.

  It was the grand duke.

  Dread bloomed in her belly; its dark vines twined around her heart. Volkmar’s forces had taken him. They must’ve ambushed him as he was coming or going from Paris to Cafard’s camp. How else would they have captured him? What were they going to do with him? Torture him? Execute him? He was one of the most powerful men in the realm. Only the king outranked him.

  As I
sabelle watched, breathless, Volkmar von Bruch strode up to the grand duke.

  And embraced him.

  Isabelle felt as if she were made of ice. Her heart had frozen. The blood was solid in her veins. Her breath was frost. If she moved a muscle, she would shatter.

  The grand duke, who was sworn to protect king and country, was in league with Volkmar von Bruch. Volkmar, who had slaughtered thousands of French soldiers. Who had burned towns, killed fleeing people.

  Isabelle thought of her family. Felix. Her village. She thought of Remy, and the silver cross he’d given her, and his friend Claude, and all the other young soldiers who might never go home again.

  She watched, stone-faced, as Volkmar’s soldiers raised their fists in a noiseless salute to their leader and to the grand duke. She watched as the soldiers walked back to their tents, the fire of war glowing in their faces, as Volkmar and the grand duke made their way to Volkmar’s tent—the tent at the base of the very tree she was in—and sat down in the two canvas chairs in front of it. She watched as a young private appeared with lanterns, a box of cigars, a decanter of brandy, and two crystal glasses.

  The fear was gone. Isabelle felt only one emotion now—a cold, lethal fury. It didn’t control her now, though; she controlled it. She let it help her instead of hurt her.

  Slowly, she climbed down the tree, as silent as a shadow, lowering one bare foot to a branch, then another, without disturbing so much as a single pine needle.

  Lower and lower she climbed, until she was only a yard above their heads. And then she listened.

  “To France’s new Lord Protector,” Volkmar said, touching his glass to the grand duke’s. “As soon as I defeat the king, the country will be mine and you will rule it for me.”

  Smiling, the grand duke bowed his head. Then he handed Volkmar a rolled parchment. “A gift.”

  Volkmar took it, broke the red wax seal—the king of France’s seal—and unrolled it.

  “A map …” he said, his eyes roving over the document.

  “Showing the size and location of every battalion the king has left.”

  “Well done!” Volkmar exclaimed. “This will make hunting them all down much easier.” He took a deep swallow of his brandy. “Is everything in order for tomorrow?”

  “It is. You will attack Cafard’s camp at dusk. He just sent four regiments to Paris and has only one left. After you kill his remaining troops, go to the field hospital and kill the wounded. I’ve no use for them. Leave Cafard alive, of course, and take him prisoner for appearance’s sake. We’ll reward him when the war is over. He’s been a loyal ally.”

  Volkmar looked at the map again. “The civilians of Saint-Michel … will they put up a fight?”

  The grand duke chuckled. “With what? Wooden spoons? I’ve been riding up and down the countryside, asking them to donate any weapons they had to the war effort. They’re completely defenseless.”

  The young private, Volkmar’s manservant, appeared again. Volkmar handed him the map and asked him to take it inside his tent, then bring them some food.

  “I want to move swiftly on the king’s other garrisons as soon as we’re finished in Saint-Michel. Take them one by one until we get to the king himself,” said Volkmar.

  “I say take the king first. He’ll surrender and that will break the spirit of any surviving troops.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “He will. I’m certain of it. Don’t forget that we have a very valuable bargaining chip.”

  Volkmar arched an eyebrow. “You’re not terribly fond of your young sovereign, are you?”

  The grand duke’s expression soured. “The king is a fool. He had his pick of princesses from esteemed royal houses and he married a kitchen girl. He allows her to persist in her idiotic missions—caring for the wounded, housing orphans in the homes of the nobility—when it would be so much less of a burden on the crown’s coffers to simply let them die. My own château is swarming with peasant brats.” He shook his head disgustedly. “The king has demeaned the crown. While he fights in the field, a lowborn girl sits on the throne of France. Worse yet, the heir to the throne will have the blood of a commoner running in his veins.”

  “That’s not a worry,” Volkmar said. “The king’s days are numbered. He will not live long enough to sire a child.”

  The grand duke drained his glass. “Unless he already has.”

  Volkmar was silent as he leaned forward to pour more brandy for his guest. Then he sat back in his chair and said, “I can have no heirs to challenge my claim to the throne. You know what that means.”

  The grand duke took a sip of his drink, then lifted his eyes to Volkmar’s. “It means the queen must die, too.”

  Isabelle climbed up to a higher branch and sat down, her back against the trunk, her hands wrapped around smaller branches, her feet dangling.

  It is said of great commanders that their blood runs cold in the fiery hell of battle. That the cannons’ roar, the screams of the dying, the smoke and sweat and blood, only serve to sharpen their perception, the better to see where advantage lies.

  Isabelle felt that clarity now.

  She was in a tree, only yards above two bloodthirsty men who would kill her without a second thought if they were to discover her, yet she sat quietly, calmly considered her options, and determined the way forward.

  Volkmar wanted to kill the king, and the queen, too; she had to find a way to stop him. She could try again to get to Paris and see Ella, or to get to the king and tell him what she’d learned, but she had no idea how she would do that, or if either of them would believe her if she did somehow manage to gain access to them.

  A memory surfaced in Isabelle’s mind now, like a fish jumping in a lake. She was back at the Maison Douleur. Blood dripped into the dirt from her maimed foot. The grand duke was walking toward Ella, carrying the glass slipper on a velvet cushion when he suddenly stumbled and dropped it. Isabelle remembered the sound of it shattering. It was an accident, he said. Except it wasn’t. He tripped on purpose; she’d seen it.

  Because he didn’t want Ella to marry the prince. Because she wasn’t highborn. She wasn’t good enough. Ella, who was kind and good. Ella, who was more beautiful than the sun. With a few cold words, the grand duke had defined her and dismissed her.

  Then Isabelle heard another voice: the old merchant’s voice. He had done the same thing to her. He’d called her ugly. Defined her before she ever had a chance to define herself. In the space of a moment, he’d decided everything she was and ever would be.

  But now Isabelle saw something she’d never seen before—that the merchant hadn’t acted alone. He’d had an accomplice—she, herself. She’d listened to him. She’d believed him. She’d let him tell her who she was. And after him, Maman, suitors, the grand duke, Cecile, the baker’s wife, the villagers of Saint-Michel.

  “They cut away pieces of me,” she whispered in the darkness. “But I handed them the knife.”

  The merchant’s voice still echoed in her head. Others joined it.

  … just a girl … ugly little monkey … ugly stepsister … strong … unruly … mean …

  Isabelle sat, listening to the voices, trying so hard to hear her own.

  And then she did. The map, it said. You have to get the map.

  The voice was not shrill or fearful. It was clear and calm and seemed to come from the very core of her being. Isabelle recognized it. When she was a child, it was the only voice she’d ever heard. It had never led her astray then, and it didn’t now.

  If she got the map, she could stop Volkmar’s attack. She would read it, then ride like the wind to the closest loyal army encampment. The camp’s commander would certainly want to know how she’d come into the possession of a secret map with the king’s seal on it. She would tell him, and he would send his troops to Saint-Michel’s rescue. She had until tomorrow, at dusk. That’s when Volkmar was going to attack.

  Volkmar’s servant had put the map inside his tent. Isabelle knew she
had to get into the tent, snatch it, and get out again. Looking down, she saw that Volkmar and the grand duke were still deep in conversation. Volkmar’s servant had set up a table for them outside the tent and had brought them supper. They weren’t even halfway through it.

  It’s now or never, she thought, then she climbed the rest of the way down the tree. Crouching low, she crept to the back of the tent. She listened for a moment, to make sure no one was inside it, then lifted the canvas flap and ducked under it. A large campaign table stood in the middle of the space. Spread across it were quills, an inkpot, letters, a telescope … and the map.

  Her heart leapt. You can do this, she told herself. Just take it and go.

  She’d been so focused on finding the map that her eyes had gone straight to the table instead of sweeping around. As she dashed toward it, a movement to her right caught her eye. She stopped dead, her heart in her mouth.

  There, sitting on a canvas cot, her wrists bound, her mouth cruelly gagged, was a girl. Isabelle’s eyes widened. She took a step toward her.

  Then she whispered one word.

  “Ella?”

  Isabelle half dropped, half skidded to her knees by the cot. She fumbled the knot out of Ella’s gag.

  “Isabelle!” Ella whispered, choking back a sob.

  “What happened? How did you get here?” Isabelle whispered back, horrified to see her stepsister tied up like an animal.

  “The grand duke,” Ella said. “He and his guards were supposed to be escorting me to a manor east of Saint-Michel. I was going to see if it could house war orphans. Halfway there, we turned off the road. He ordered his men to bind me and bring me here. Volkmar—”

  “I know,” Isabelle said grimly. “I heard him and the grand duke talking. I’m going to get the king’s map. Then we’re going to leave.”

  “How, Isabelle?” Ella asked. “There are hundreds of soldiers in this camp!”

  “I got in. I can get out.”