Martin reappeared and set a stack of books down next to me. “You may find these interesting,” he said.
I nodded and pointed to the enormous portraits lining the library walls. “Which is King Alexis?”
“The Third?”
“Yes. The one Anushka killed.”
Martin’s light flew along the portraits until he found the one he was looking for. I rose and made my way over to it. King Alexis was handsome, with strong, straight features, and black hair that fell to his shoulders, but his good looks were marred by his haughty expression.
“His son, King Xavier II, also known as the Savior.” Martin’s light moved over to reveal a grim-faced troll with the eyes of a man who has seen too much. “He ascended to the throne at age sixteen, but it was his genius that designed a way in for the river. Trollus would not have survived if not for the fish.
“He was succeeded by King Tristan I, also known as Tristan the Builder. He was the architect of the original structure of the tree. His work reduced the number of trolls required to maintain the ceiling by more than half. He was also responsible for the construction of the moon hole.”
Tristan the Builder was as grim-faced as his father, but as Martin continued his description of the Montigny line, I noticed a return of the haughty expression that Alexis had worn. Even King Marcel III, known to all as Marcel the Dimwit, had a look of self-entitlement.
“What do you suppose they will call His Majesty?” I asked, looking up at Tristan’s father’s portrait. Either it was from many years ago, or the artist had taken a great deal of liberty, because the Thibault in the painting was not the enormously fat man I knew. In fact, he looked eerily like a somewhat older version of Tristan.
“I don’t make a habit of speculating on such things, my lady,” Martin said, but I saw the corners of his mouth creep up.
My vote was for Thibault the Corpulent.
I turned back to the book and flipped to the portrait of Anushka. “Martin, why would she have broken the mountain while she was still in the city? Why risk her own death?”
“No one knows for certain, my lady.”
“And if she was powerful enough to break a mountain, why didn’t she break herself out? Why did she suffer through everything that went on down here for the four weeks it took to dig out, and then curse the trolls?”
Martin shrugged. “It is not in my nature to– “
“Speculate, I know.” I frowned at the book. It simply did not make sense for her to have broken the mountain while she was in the city unless it was some act of suicide. “Could a troll break a mountain?”
“One troll?” He shook his head. “No. Not possible.”
“What about several working together?”
“It’s feasible, I suppose.” He didn’t look very happy at the direction I was going. “But that isn’t what happened. The witch broke the mountain, waited until safety was in our grasp, and then uttered the curse.”
“Are curses anything like troll magic?” I scratched my head. “How is it possible for her to still be alive after so many years? Are you even certain that she is?”
Martin’s face pinched together – apparently I’d offended him. “Troll magic is not the same as human magic, which is to say witchcraft. Not the same in the least. And we know she is alive because the curse is still in place.”
“But how?” I persisted.
“Blood magic, my lady. The dark arts.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Little. It is human magic that draws power from the spilt blood of sacrifice.”
I frowned. “Is all human magic dark? Is blood the only source of power?”
He cleared his throat. “No. My understanding – which, I must reiterate, is limited – is that blood magic is not the norm. Most witches draw power from the earth by tapping into the power of the four elements.”
“What can they do with their power?” I persisted. “Other than curse trolls.”
Martin looked uncomfortable. “A witch can affect the world with the words she speaks. Heal other humans. Convince them to do things.”
My whole body jerked. “What do you mean, ‘convince them to do things’?”
He shrugged. “I mean what I say.”
What he was telling me was alarmingly familiar. “The ability to convince…” Did that mean? The countless times I’d been able to convince the inconvincible scrolled through my mind. Could it be that what I had always attributed to willpower was something else entirely? Sweat broke out on my palms. “Where does troll magic come from?”
“The fifth element: spirit.” He tapped his own chest. “Our magic comes from within. Witches are merely conduits of the earth’s power.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
Martin shrugged one shoulder. “Our ancestors were curious about such things. Foolishly, it turned out, believing that human magic was no danger to our kind. They kept records of what they learned, and we also have documents written by witches themselves.”
He tapped the spine of one of the books he’d brought me. “This is a witch’s grimoire. It was found in Anushka’s rooms after she fled Trollus.”
Tentatively, I reached out and plucked the book from the pile, half-afraid the thing would burst into flames at my touch. It was in surprisingly good condition considering it was over five centuries old. I touched the runes engraved on the cover, which was made of a strange sort of leather that I’d never seen before.
“Human skin,” Martin said helpfully.
I dropped the book.
“Try to open it, my lady,” he said.
Reluctantly, I retrieved the book from where it had fallen. The smooth feel of it beneath my fingers disgusted me. This wasn’t something, it was someone. I tugged on the clasp, gently at first, and then harder. It refused to budge.
Martin sighed. “No one has been able to open it. I thought perhaps because you are human it might…” He sighed again.
“Perhaps one needs to be a witch,” I said. “And do I look like a witch to you?”
Martin laughed nervously.
“Do you know where she is now?” I asked.
“No one knows, my lady.”
“She could be anywhere, then. Pretending to be anybody?”
“Don’t ask him to speculate, Cécile. Martin only deals in facts.”
I leapt off my chair, spinning around. “Tristan! I mean, my lord.”
“Your Highness.” Martin bowed. He eyed the two of us as though wondering what sort of destruction we would wreak upon his library. “If you could please keep your voices down.” Then he walked hurriedly away.
Tristan gave a soft snort of laughter as he warded our conversation against eavesdroppers, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling very amused. “I suppose I should consider this an improvement over the mines.”
I eyed him nervously, wondering if this would be the moment of reckoning. “It was something I thought I needed to do. Thank you for not interfering.”
He cocked one of his eyebrows. “Once I realized where you’d gone, there wasn’t much I could do without making a scene and raising more questions than I’ve a mind to be answering. It was reckless of you, though. And dangerous. I have noticed that there is a certain pattern to your behavior, and it makes me nervous.”
“I didn’t get caught,” I said. “At least, not really.”
His jaw tightened.
“A guild member saw me,” I admitted. “But I think he was a sympathizer.”
Tristan went very still. “Tell me what happened.”
I explained, and when I finished, he nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think we need to worry about him.”
“I don’t either,” I said. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes.”
I had hoped he would elaborate, but as usual, he was unwilling to divulge any more information than necessary.
Silence hung between us, but I felt his anxiety mount. Though he knew we were allies, he did not trust
me. Not completely. Not in the way I found myself trusting him.
“Why are you in the library, Cécile?”
I stepped away from him and back to my table full of books. I cleared my throat. “I was brought to Trollus for one reason, Tristan, and that was to fulfill the prophesy that came from your aunt’s foretelling.”
“I’m not sure anyone actually believes you will,” Tristan started to say, but I interrupted him.
“Oh, they believe,” I said softly, thinking of the faces of the half-bloods in the mine. “Not everyone is as pessimistic as you.”
I rested my elbows on the table and stared at the grimoire. “Clearly it wasn’t the two of us being bonded under moonlight. It must be something we need to do. What exactly did your aunt say?”
He stared at me, his reluctance palpable.
“I’ve a right to know, don’t you think?”
“Fine. It was in verse. They always are, but don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”
I shrugged. “I like poems.”
“Eyes of blue and hair of fire
Are the keys to your desire.
Angel’s voice and will of steel
Shall force the dark witch to kneel.
Death to bind and bind to break
Sun and moon for all our sake.
Prince of night, daughter of day,
Bound as one the witch they’ll slay.
Same hour they their first breath drew,
On her last, the witch will rue.
Join the two named in this verse
And see the end of the curse.”
He recited the words quickly. “It isn’t very good, as far as poems go. But it is clear.”
Clear on the surface, maybe, but binding the two of us obviously wasn’t all it would take.
Tristan settled down in the chair across from me, nibbling on a fingernail. “Any ideas?” He seemed oddly nervous given that we sat alone in a library.
I brooded on it for a moment, not liking the only idea that came to mind. “I think we need to track her down and kill her.”
Tristan rubbed his hands across his eyes. “Do you think we haven’t tried?”
“I don’t know what you have or haven’t done,” I snapped, annoyed that he was fighting me on this. “No one has bothered to tell me.”
“Then let me tell you now. For years after the Fall, humanity avoided Trollus like the plague, which wasn’t surprising given the way they’d been treated. But eventually, greed drove them back.”
“Gold?” I asked.
“Always the gold. Trollus had plenty of wealth, but no food. When the first men found their way back in, do you think that is what Xavier asked them for? No. First, he sent them after her. Wealth beyond their wildest dreams if they could produce the corpse of the witch. Countless women resembling her were slaughtered, but never the right one. His people were dying of starvation, but his entire focus was on hunting her down. Only when his own larders grew lean did he turn his resources to establishing trade for food. And they called him the Savior for it.”
“If there was ever a chance of finding her, it was then. Her face was well known. But the humans were not unhappy with the results of what she had done.” He tapped the book in front of me. “This doesn’t tell the whole story – not even half of it. There are things we did that no king would allow to be written, because that would mean they could never be forgotten.”
“Such as?”
“Such as feeding humans the flesh of their own dead while troll aristocracy feasted in their palaces. Sending humans like rats into the labyrinth with promises of riches if they found a way out. Slaughtering human babies and using their mothers like milk cows for troll infants. And once the humans had all fled, doing the same to half-blood women.”
I held up a hand to make him stop, his words making me feel breathless and unwell. What he was telling me was shocking, but looking at the expressions of the kings above us, I could well imagine them giving the orders.
“But human memories are short, it seems,” Tristan continued. “They soon forgot the atrocities of Trollus, or perhaps their greed overwhelmed their fear. They agreed to continue the hunt for the promise of gold. When it became clear she would not be found through her physical description, the hunt turned on women who followed her practices.”
“The witch trials?” He had my attention now. The trials happened once a generation, at least. I’d been ten the last time a mob of men swept through the Hollow looking for women who were uncannily skilled with herbs or predicting the weather. Calling them trials wasn’t even the truth, because anyone the mob accused was burned to death.
Tristan nodded. “Hundreds of years and thousands of women slaughtered and for what? We’re still trapped like rats in this hole. She’s still alive and no doubt has a good daily chuckle about our worsening predicament. And my father continues to send men out hunting for her, when he knows that it’s useless. It is like trying to thread a needle with a battering ram. It’s a waste of time.”
“It isn’t a waste of time,” I argued. “Your aunt told me the prophecies always come true.”
The anxiety in him rose to a fevered pitch. “I want you to drop this, Cécile. I don’t want you to spend another second thinking about it.”
“What is wrong with you?” I demanded.
“Leave it,” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Do not pursue this any further!”
I realized then that he had duped me. “It isn’t that you don’t think the curse can be broken,” I said, snatching hold of his arm. “It’s that you don’t want it broken at all. Not even once you are king. Not ever.”
“And if you had any sense, you’d be thankful for it!” He jerked away from me hard enough that I almost fell off the chair.
“Perhaps I would be if you’d give me half the chance,” I said, rubbing my strained fingers. “But it’s difficult given you seem intent on deceiving me. Why not try the truth for once. If you’re even capable of it.”
He flinched and was quiet for a moment before speaking. “Cécile, consider this: my ancestors did not just rule Trollus, they ruled all of the Isle of Light and much of the western half of the continent. Do you honestly believe if we are set free that my people will settle for anything less?”
“I don’t think what happened in the past dictates what will happen in the future,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“I don’t agree,” Tristan said coldly. “And I think if you knew more about what you speak, you would be singing a different tune.”
He gestured at the table and three books toppled sideways off my stack, revealing a huge tome underneath. “Some light reading on our prior conquests.” Then he turned and walked out.
Reluctantly, I opened the book and shone my light stick on the page so I could read. Before long, I wished I hadn’t. For the centuries prior to the Fall, the trolls had been a conquering force like no other in the world. They had ruled lands that reached far beyond the shores of the Isle. Foreign nations had either bent a knee and paid tribute in slaves and goods, or their people were slaughtered. A lone troll had the power to wipe out hundreds of men, and the troll kings had armies in the thousands. The artists illustrated the history in graphic detail. My stomach turned at the sight of it.
Was this what I should expect if I set the trolls free? King Thibault’s army might be a mere echo of the trolls’ strength in prior days, but what could armies of men do in the face of a magic with the strength to blast rock and tear metal asunder? The Regent of Trianon would not willingly give up power – he would ride against the trolls and learn his lesson the hard way. And I did not see Thibault showing any mercy against an enemy army – an army that included my very own brother. I swallowed hard at the images running through my head.
But what about after Tristan was king? Then it would be within his power to ensure peace. He wasn’t like his father or like those other kings. And what’s more, with only a few exceptions, the trolls I knew were not ev
il marauders intent on domination. The half-bloods were fighting against oppression, and I knew there were full-bloods who were like-minded. The past did not have to repeat itself.
Rising, I smoothed out the wrinkles in my skirt, and the grimoire caught my attention. I stared at it, thinking. For all the trolls’ magic and strength, it had been a human who broke the mountain and trapped Trollus for eternity, or at least near enough to it. Humans had magic too, at least some of us. I’d be a fool to not learn what I could about it.
I picked up the book, hating the feel of the strange leather cover. “What answers do you hold?” I whispered, examining the strange lettering on the cover. Probably the language of the north, where the witch had come from. It was all gibberish to me.
I examined the clasp again, but there was no catch or release trigger that I could see. I tugged on it, but the clasp wouldn’t budge. “Stones and sky!” I swore. “Open!” I pulled hard and my hand slipped, the catch slicing painfully across my finger.
Click.
The book fell out of my hands and landed with a thud on the table, pages open. I quickly looked over my shoulder to ensure I was alone, then shone my light on the pages. The language looked the same as that on the cover, written in a tiny but neat hand. The open pages were thick with words and little drawings, but I understood none of it. Tentatively, I reached down to flip the page.
Dizziness washed through me and I closed my eyes, focused on keeping the contents of my stomach where they were. When I opened them again, I gasped aloud. The words were as clear to me as if they were my native tongue.
“Love potion,” I read aloud. The ingredients were plants and herbs that I’d never heard of – the only thing that was familiar was stallion’s urine. Three drops of the potion were to be served in red wine to the man in question, and it would be at its most potent at the stroke of midnight. “Yuck.” I flipped to the previous page: “Infliction of Boils.” Vile. I turned the pages, and my disappointment grew. The spells were petty and trivial – the sorts of things a silly village girl would use to improve her fortune or embarrass her enemies. There was nothing as grand as how to break a mountain, curse a troll, or live forever. The only spell that looked useful was one for healing, but judging from the lack of wear on that page, healing arts were not where Anushka’s interests had lain.
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