The Broken Ones

by Danielle L. Jensen

  But Pénélope knew nothing about our plans, and it needed to stay that way.

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at her,” she snapped. “Seems as though he thinks about it a great deal.”

  “That is another matter entirely,” I said, silently cursing Tristan for his rare lack of discretion. “He might behave differently if he knew.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” she said. “But empathy is not his strong suit.”

  If only she knew.

  She sat down heavily next to me. “Now that you know, are you going to tell him?”

  It was a piece of information Tristan would want to know: that his father was secretly negotiating his future union was no small thing. Loyalty demanded that I tell him, but… “Anaïs hasn’t told him for reasons that are her own,” I said. “It’s her secret to tell, not ours.”

  Pénélope nodded, but was quiet for a long time, the only sound that of the stagnant fountain and the larger roar of the waterfall. “There are times I think that Anaïs is the center of my world. That everything I am and everything that I’ve done has been to ensure her success. That without her, my life barely exists.”

  Well, I knew that feeling. Far too well. From childhood, my life had been dedicated to Tristan with little room for anything else. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way,” I said, wishing all the hopes in my heart would disappear, because I knew they would amount to nothing. “The worst has happened, and yet here you sit, alive and well. Maybe now you can live your own life the way you want without fear of discovery. Your affliction no longer owns you.”

  “What you speak of sounds like a dream,” she said, and though my hood blocked my peripheral view of her face, I knew she was watching me. “Marc, why do you hate my painting?”

  Sitting still in the face of that question was impossible, so I rose and walked over to a glass tree, brushing the dust off the branches. Not a day went by when I was not reminded of my own affliction, every looking glass and averted gaze reminding me of my disjointed and disfigured appearance. It made me think of what a hypocrite I was to tell her not to let her affliction own her when mine very much owned me.

  “I know what I look like,” I said, forcing the words from my lips. “But sometimes I like to imagine that maybe it isn’t as bad as I think. That maybe my eyes are cruel and deceptive critics, and that maybe others see a different reality.” I bit the insides of my cheeks. “But what you painted was what my eyes have always shown me, and it reminded me that such dreams are for children and fools. What you painted was reality.”

  Her skirts rustled as she came to stand between me and the tree. Even with her cosmetics smeared and her hair in disarray, she was the most beautiful girl in Trollus. Reaching up with one hand, she pushed back the hood of my cloak, and I instantly turned my head so she would see me only in profile. But she caught my chin with her slender fingers and pulled it back.

  “I painted you as you are, because I love you as you are,” she said. Before I could say a word, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me. And was gone so quickly that I wondered if I was a fool lost in a dream after all.

  Chapter Three

  Pénélope

  I walked swiftly through the streets, one hand pressed to my lips, my heart racing, and my mind scarcely capable of comprehending what I’d just done.

  I’d kissed Marc.

  And in doing so, I’d broken one of the rules my father had forced me to live by: thou shalt not court intimacy. But what did my father’s rules even matter anymore? Marc’s words had rung through me and shattered enough of the walls containing my spirit that I was finally able to see that I might have a chance at life. My secret was out. The damage had been done. And though I hated the idea that I might profit from my sister’s downfall, I could not help but reach greedily for that which had been denied me for so long.

  I loved Marc. I could scarce remember a time when I hadn’t loved him, for a kinder, more compassionate boy I’d never met. It wasn’t that I was blind and didn’t see how iron and the curse’s confinement had afflicted him – I did. But whereas others turned their faces and grimaced at the sight of him, I was always struck at how extraordinary it was that he who fate had treated with such cruelty managed to be so wholly good. Because good was a rare trait in our world.

  I only wished I knew if he felt the same way about me.

  And though I had no reason to believe that he did, I couldn’t help but let my imagination run wild with visions of a future with him. Bonding wouldn’t be possible, that much I knew. The crown possessed the only source of the magic required for the ceremony, which meant matches only occurred when the King approved them. Given he’d refused to allow Tristan to bond Anaïs after finding out my secret, he’d certainly refuse to allow his nephew to tie his life to mine. But that didn’t mean Marc and I couldn’t be together. Given who I was, no one would even bat an eye at the break in tradition.

  My family did not bond.

  Anaïs would have been the first in two thousand years. My father had pretended to agree to the concession in order to gain the wardship of Prince Roland, but I knew it was because the bond ensured their union could not be undone if I was discovered. But given the secrecy surrounding the union, and given the nature of my illness, no one would be surprised at all if I didn’t bond my husband.

  But that didn’t mean I didn’t wish it could be otherwise.

  Lost in my daydreams, I nodded to the guards at the gates to our property and went up the glass and marble mosaic of tiles leading to my home. The golden doors swung open on their oiled hinges, and I closed them softly behind me, not wanting to invite the attention of my father or grandmother if either of them were home.

  “Your maid returned some time ago with your artwork, my lady. I had her put everything in your studio.”

  I jumped, turning to find Lessa standing next to the base of the grand staircase at the center of the foyer. The King’s bastard half-blood daughter smiled sweetly and curtsied, and as always, the gesture felt like mockery. She was required to wear grey, but her silk dress was elaborate enough to be called a gown, the red sash marking her as the property of our house trimmed with garnets of the same hue. She was the prize jewel of my grandmother’s possessions, and a hundred times more powerful than I. Demanding deference from her verged on absurdity, and we both knew it. “Thank you. Is Anaïs returned?”

  Lessa shook her head, the gleam in her eye making me nervous. She bore a strong resemblance to Tristan, but for reasons I could not explain, she reminded me very much of her younger half-brother, the mad Prince Roland. “I’d like a bath before I dress for dinner, if you would,” I said.

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “Of course. I’ll arrange for it to be ready after His Grace is finished with you.”

  A slick of sweat broke out on my palms. “He wishes to speak to me?”

  “He’s waiting for you in the parlor.”

  I nodded, straightened my dress, and paused in front of a mirror long enough to wipe away my smeared cosmetics. Then I went in.

  My father stood before a large portrait I’d painted of my mother, his back to me. She’d died in a sluag attack, and I sometimes wondered why he bothered to keep the painting, for he’d shown almost no remorse at her passing.

  “Father.” I curtseyed deeply, holding the position until he turned.

  “Pénélope.” His tone was light, but my skin prickled with the feel of magic fueled by anger, and dread seeped into my heart.

  Coming over, he pulled me into an embrace, his chin resting next to my ear. “You were always my better daughter. Sweet. Charming. Obedient. If I could’ve given you all your sister’s attributes and retained your personality, what a magnificent tool you would’ve been. But rarely do power and tractability walk hand in hand.” He squeezed me tighter. Enough that it hurt. “Why did you have to change?”

  I couldn’t breathe. Magic clogged my mouth and nose, and I struggled, trying to extract myself from his grip, but he was too
strong, my body and magic pinioned. He’d warned me what would happen if I allowed my secret to be exposed, but my fear of punishment had waned over the passing weeks. I’d been a fool to allow it to do so.

  “Was it not enough that you ruined your sister’s chances of becoming Queen,” he asked softly. “You had to try to turn the prince against her as well?”

  I struggled harder, my fingers clawing ineffectually at the sleeves of his coat. Then, over his shoulder, I saw my grandmother appear at the entrance to the parlor, and relief flooded my heart. She was the only person my father listened to, and I knew she wouldn’t let him hurt me. Not physically. My eyes latched onto hers, pleading silently for help even as my lungs began to burn.

  But she did nothing.

  Blackness crept over my vision, but not quickly enough to keep me from seeing her take hold of the pair of doors and slowly shut me away.

  “You destroyed my plans, Pénélope,” my father whispered into my ear, his voice sounding distant. “Did you not realize there would be a cost?”

  My knees buckled, but just before I lost consciousness, the magic cleared from my mouth and nose. I sucked in one desperate breath.

  But only one, then the gag returned.

  “Even if she couldn’t be Queen, Anaïs was favored by the heir to the throne,” he said. “There is power in such a friendship, but either you were too stupid to realize it or your actions were a malicious attack against this family’s future.”

  Another breath. Tears dripped down my face.

  “I know what you did.” His fingers dug into my arms hard enough to leave bruises that would last for weeks. “I know you insulted that little Montigny whelp to his face, all but ensuring your expulsion from that little circle of ingrates. Possibly your sister as well.”

  My maid. Anaïs and I took pains to keep our servants from eavesdropping, but the girl wouldn’t have needed to hear anything to know what was going on. She must have reported what she’d seen back to him.

  “You are a liability,” he hissed. “You are a weak and flawed creature. You are worth nothing in our world.”

  I’d been hearing those words all my life, but at least before I’d been protected by the fact that no one outside our family knew my worthlessness. He could dangle me before potential suitors vying for connections to our house and to the girl favored to become Queen, no matter that he never intended to allow me to bond any of them. Now, instead of tempting fruit, I was the poisoned apple everyone was desperate to avoid.

  He allowed me no more breaths. Nor would he. What a cruel twist of fate that not an hour after realizing that I might have a chance at a life worth living, my future would be stolen away. Regrets beyond number washed across my mind, and anger chased away the fear in my rapidly beating heart. Lifting up one leg, I slammed the pointed heel of my shoe down against the insole of his foot.

  My heel wedged in his shield of magic, but the motion shoved him off balance and he let me go. Except the magic blocking my mouth and nose stayed firmly in place. I tried to tear it off with my hands; tried to wedge my own power underneath it, but doing so only made the bones of my face scream under the pressure. The ground rushed up to meet my knees, then my palms pressed against the carpet. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t feel.

  “Let her go!”

  The magic tore away from my face. Sucking in breath after breath of precious air, I lifted my head from the carpet to see a pair of slender legs clad in snug trousers and boots. Anaïs.

  Using the edge of a table to pull myself back onto my feet, I turned to see my father hanging in the air, his arms pinned to his sides. The surprise on his face turned swiftly to anger, and I screamed a warning as a wave of heat surged across the room.

  To shatter against a force much greater.

  Anaïs gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, I suppose that’s another secret out of the bag. It won’t be long until we have very few left.” Strolling across the room, she drew the sword belted at her waist. From the glittering edge, I knew it wasn’t one of the practice blades she and Tristan used. “If you hurt my sister again, I will kill you.”

  The look he shot her was pure derision. “Even now, you protect her. Pénélope ruined everything for you. What is being a duchesse to being a princess? To being a queen? How much warmth will remain in your heart for your sister when Thibault chooses your replacement?”

  “It will remain unaffected.”

  “Oh?” He laughed, and listed off a string of names, all girls our age set to inherit titles. “Which one of them do you think it will be? And how well do you suppose she’ll tolerate your continued presence? How long until you find yourself completely shut out of Tristan’s life?”

  “Which is why we must do everything in our power to keep that from happening,” a voice said.

  Anaïs and I both turned to see our grandmother enter the room.

  “Wipe that pathetic frightened look off your face, Pénélope,” my grandmother snapped. “You are alive, and your sister seems inclined to keep you that way. A fact you might keep in mind the next time you feel possessed to act out in the presence of royalty. And Anaïs, put your father down. You’ve made your point.”

  “What do you suggest, grandmother?” Anaïs asked, lowering our father to the ground, and releasing him.

  “A change of strategy.” Picking up a decanter, my grandmother poured three glasses of wine, handing one to Anaïs and one to my father, whom she eyed up and down. “You seem to be forgetting one thing: the Montignys are killers. I’ll not ever forget the way the royal chambers dripped with blood after Thibault disposed of his own father, and all because the King had taken something that belonged to him. Do you think Tristan won’t do the same if his father stands between him and something he wants?”

  My father sipped his wine, eyes distant and thoughtful. “Perhaps.” His gaze focused on Anaïs. “But success in such a strategy is predicated upon emotion, and I prefer more certainty in my plans. It’s time we pushed Roland toward the throne.”

  Anaïs blinked once, then laughed. “You can’t be serious. Roland is a sadistic little monster – and entirely insane – there is no chance of the King disinheriting Tristan in favor of his brother.”

  “Unless we give him no choice.”

  Silence.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” There was no inflection in my sister’s voice, but I knew that meant she was rattled by the direction this conversation was going. I didn’t blame her.

  “Not killing him, since that’s obviously your concern,” our father said, smirking. “That would put us at risk of Thibault taking off our heads. What I propose is proving Tristan is plotting against his father. Then the King will do our dirty work for us.”

  “Plotting to do what?” Anaïs asked.

  “Overthrow him, obviously,” my grandmother replied. “And you’re going to find proof.”

  Anaïs said nothing, and I held my breath.

  “Unless, of course,” my grandmother continued, “your loyalty is no longer to this family.”

  The room was thick with tension and magic, and I prepared myself to do what I could to defend my sister if her answer wasn’t to their liking. She might be able to best my father, but not both of them together.

  Slowly, Anaïs turned her head to regard me, then returned her attention to our father. “I love my family. I want us to remain strong and powerful, and I’ll make sacrifices in order to ensure we endure.”

  I exhaled a ragged breath.

  “Good.” Our grandmother smiled and took a sip from her glass. “It would be distressing to learn that you’d become as useless to us as your sister.”

  Anaïs snorted, then shook her head. “You ask me to do this as though it is a simple thing. Tristan’s the furthest thing from stupid. If he’s plotting against his father, why would he let me in on his plans? He trusts me as much as anyone, but what does that mean when he trusts no one? What certainty could I possibly give him that my loyalty to him is absolute? Th
at I would not sell him out in favor of loyalty to my family?”

  “She’s right.” My grandmother tapped a fingernail against her glass. “Duplicity is in that one’s blood. To cause him to slip up, Anaïs needs to be closer to him. In bed with him, as they say. The benefits of her as his lover are manifold. Not only would he be more likely to confide his secrets, there is every chance he’d fall in love with her. And hope against hope, there is a chance a healthy child could be produced. I think then that the boy would be more than willing to dispatch his father in order to bond her. There might be a chance of Anaïs becoming Queen after all.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the liquid in Anaïs’s glass shiver, but I did not think anyone else noticed.

  “A fallible plan.” My father shook his head. “Better she turn her efforts to finding proof of the boy’s traitorous ways.”

  “We can play both angles for a time.” My grandmother eyed Anaïs. “You’ll need to change your ways if you wish to seduce a prince. You’ll certainly need to change your attire.”

  Anaïs shrugged. “Likely. I’ll arrange for Lessa to stand for the dressmakers.”

  It was an awfully easy concession. I hadn’t seen her willingly wear a gown in years – not since she’d grown old enough that grandmother could no longer make her. A fact that was not lost on our father. He lifted one eyebrow. “Your eagerness makes me question your motivations, Anaïs.”

  “I’m motivated to keep that which is mine. I want to be Queen, but most certainly not Roland’s Queen.” She set her glass down. “However, if you doubt my commitment or capability, perhaps you should take advantage of another tool at your disposal.”

  “Which tool is that?”

  “Tristan might not confide all his secrets to me, but he does to Marc.”

  My heart skipped, and then my pulse surged. No. Please, no.

  “And you think he might be willing to divulge those secrets?”

  “Not to me. And certainly not to you.” She turned to look at me. “But perhaps he might be willing to share them with the loveliest, most talented artist in Trollus.”