The Broken Ones

by Danielle L. Jensen

  I took an involuntary step back against the weight of their scrutiny.

  “You think he might be responsive to her advances?” my father asked.

  “Have you seen him?” Anaïs replied, and I wanted to slap her, as both my father and grandmother laughed.

  My father rubbed his chin while eyeing me, the smile growing on his lips not touching his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s time you earned your right to our family name?” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you earned your right to live?”

  Chapter Four

  Marc

  I followed the sound of piano music through my home, finding my mother seated before the lacquered instrument, fingers flying across the keys, sightless eyes staring off into the distance. The composition was something I’d heard her working on for weeks, and I sat silently on a chair, listening until she’d played it through. My mother was a composer of high regard – a guild master; her talent was what had caught my father’s eye, and what had allowed my grandfather to see past her common bloodline. And her blindness.

  Fingers growing still on the keys, my mother turned her head to me. “Good afternoon, dearest.”

  “Good afternoon, Mother.”

  Rising to her feet, she crossed the room, delicate filaments of her magic guiding her steps. With unerring precision, she tweaked my hood aside to kiss my cheek. “Your aunt has invited me to dinner, so I cannot linger.”

  “Is Father home?” I asked, pulling my hood back into place, my eyes going to the bonding marks on her hand to see if the silver had grown any darker or duller, a sign of my father’s diminishing health.

  “In his study,” she replied, her face falling ever so slightly. “Perhaps you might convince him to take some rest. He attended His Majesty all morning, and you know how that drains him.”

  That was because attending Thibault de Montigny felt much like walking a tight wire over a bed of knives. “I’ll try.”

  My boots sank into the plush carpet as I climbed the curved staircase leading to the second floor, my eyes stinging from the brilliantly lit crystal lamps spaced to illuminate the elaborately painted walls and ceiling. It was my great-grandmother’s work, but it made me think of Pénélope. I painted you as you are, because I love you as you are…

  I’d never believed it possible that she’d feel that way about me, but she was no more capable of lying than I was. And that kiss… If there was a chance, any chance at all, I had to take it.

  The two servants cleaning in the corridor dropped into low bows as I passed, but other than inclining my head, I did not engage them as I might otherwise have done. Knocking on the door to my father’s study, I hesitated only a moment before entering. “Father?”

  He did not pause in his writing, and my chest tightened at the whiteness of his hair that only a short year ago had been as black as my own. Setting down his pen, he dusted sand over the paper and then looked up. “I thought you were with His Highness?”

  “I was. But he had a meeting with the Builders’ Guild scheduled to discuss the tree.”

  “He’s too young to be responsible for the lives of an entire city,” my father grumbled, setting aside his papers. “Thibault erred in that decision, which any of his advisors would have said if he’d bothered to consult us. Never has seen reason when it comes to that boy. The tree’s magic holds half a mountain-worth of rock off Trollus. It is not something to be given as a birthday gift.”

  “Tristan was pleased to take it on, and his mind is suited to the task,” I said, hoping to end this line of conversation. I wasn’t here to talk about my cousin or his feats of magical engineering.

  “A boy should have a chance to live before being saddled with such a burden. I wish you could have longer.”

  My stomach clenched with unease. “You need to work less. Rest more. If the King knew…”

  “The King does know, Marc.” He met my gaze. “Being considered indispensable by a ruler has its privileges, but also its costs. He will use me until I am dead, and then my responsibilities will fall to you.”

  I sighed. Besides the honored duty of holding the key to the labyrinth, the maze of tunnels running through the rock surrounding Trollus, my father was also responsible for the vast task of keeping the city fed. I’d no doubt that it was the stress of his duties to the King and Trollus that was driving my father to an early grave.

  “I know,” I said. “But that isn’t what I’m here to talk about.”

  My father leaned back in his chair, and though his skin was dull, his eyes were still shrewd. “If this is to be a serious discussion, pull that cursed hood off. I want to converse with my son, not with shadows.”

  Reluctantly, I pulled it back. “What would you say if I told you I wished to be bonded?”

  His grey eyebrows rose. “You’re a bit young for it.”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “I’m aware of your age.” He watched me silently for a long moment. “You’ve someone in mind?”

  I sucked in a deep breath, wishing I had more confidence that this would go as I hoped. “Pénélope.”

  For a few seconds, he didn’t react. Then a grimace crossed his face and my stomach dropped. “You have to know that could never be.”

  “But–”

  “I can understand why you’d want this. You two have long been close friends.” He sighed. “She’s a beautiful, talented girl, and a sweeter disposition one could not ask for. I dare say there isn’t a soul in Trollus who doesn’t wish fate had been kinder to her. But her magic is weak – she might well be the weakest full-blooded troll alive.”

  “I don’t care about that.” What did it matter if her magic wasn’t strong? It wasn’t as though she needed more than she had for any practical purpose. The only reason it was important was that it had been deemed so by those who had power. It was exactly that way of thinking that Tristan and I wanted to eliminate from Trollus, but I dared not confess so. Even to my father.

  “And maybe if that were her only flaw, it wouldn’t matter.” He set down his pen. “Marc, she’s afflicted.”

  A vision of Pénélope’s painting drifted across my mind. “But so am I!”

  My father’s face filled with sympathy. “It’s true that you’re a fright to look upon. But…” He shook his head. “Your affliction is purely cosmetic. Your health is good and your magic formidable. But Pénélope… Even if the Duke agreed for her to be bonded, for you, it would border on suicide.”

  “You don’t know that,” I countered. “She’s careful.”

  “Childbirth would kill her, if some small accident didn’t.”

  “She doesn’t need to have children. There are ways to prevent it.” I didn’t know much about such things, but I knew it was true.

  “Fallible methods,” he snapped. “And one mistake would mean the doom of both of you.” Lifting a hand to his temples, he rubbed them. “I’m fading, Marc. It will only be luck if I last another year before my light goes out. And when it happens, in all likelihood your mother will be taken too. She who is strong and healthy…” He broke off, face filled with naked grief. “Please don’t make it worse by putting your own life in danger.”

  It made me feel ill to have upset him this way. Nearly everyone I knew had contentious relationships with their parents, but that wasn’t the case with me and mine. I didn’t care to think of losing them, and I didn’t want to make their final months harder than they had to be.

  “It won’t be long until you’ll not need to ask my permission,” my father continued. “But in the matter of bonding, you will always need the crown’s approval. And the King will not approve a match that endangers your life.” He dropped his hand from his temples. “Your life is not your own, Marc. Your loyalty must be to your cousin above all else. He needs you, and most of all, Trollus needs you to keep him in check.” He hesitated, as though unsure whether to say what was on his mind. “Thibault was not always this way. Perhaps if I’d been as good a friend to him as you are to Tristan, he might�
�ve walked a different path.”

  So strange to think of Thibault having friends and of my father being one of them. Did my father keep as many of the King’s secrets as I did for Tristan? What were they? And if I asked, would he tell me? These were important questions, and if my loyalty was to Tristan, those questions were what should command my focus. But I was tired of my life revolving around my cousin. For once, I wanted to do something for myself.

  “The King isn’t the only one who can give me permission,” I said. “Tristan can give it, too.”

  “I know,” my father said, his voice quiet. “But please think long and hard about what it will mean for your friendship if you ask for his permission and he refuses to give it.”

  Chapter Five

  Pénélope

  “See what you can learn from the Biron boy,” my father said. Then he eyed me up and down. “Use whatever tools you have at your disposal.”

  “But–”

  “Your virtue no longer holds any value, Pénélope. Only do make certain that whatever information you gain for it is worth the cost – he’s a twisted creature, but he’s favored by the heir, and that means he has options. His interest won’t last.”

  I scowled, but my father only waved a hand, dismissing me from the conversation. Before I could go, my grandmother caught hold of my arm. “Your word that you won’t reveal that you or your sister are spying. The last thing we need is you undermining yet another of our plans.”

  I glared at her, but her grip only tightened until I nodded. “I won’t reveal that Anaïs and I are spies.” The promise settled on me, binding, the magic running through my veins ensuring it would never be broken. I fled before they could come up with anything more to ask from me. Or anything more to take from me.

  Not caring if it was improper, I bolted up the stairs and down the hallway to my rooms, silently skirting the sounds of Roland playing in his chambers, lest I draw his interest. Closing the door behind me, I rested my forehead against the polished oak and drew in a ragged breath.

  What was the point in living?

  The thought forced tears from my eyes, burning in a hot flood down my cheeks, because I no longer had a good answer.

  Never before had I felt the press of the witch’s curse the way I did now, because there was no escape. Nowhere I could go that my father wouldn’t find me and drag me home. The only thing keeping me alive was Anaïs’s protection, and that now seemed tenuous at best.

  My stomach hollow, I went to my bathing chamber, stripping off my sweaty gown as I went. I shut the door, wishing, not for the first time, it had a latch, but my father told me that privacy was a privilege of power.

  Not that it mattered, for the tub was dry.

  I stared at it, knowing that for once, Lessa ignoring one of my requests had nothing to do with her disdain for me. Corpses didn’t need baths, and that was what she’d expected me to be at this juncture.

  Turning the tap, I went to stand in front of the full-length mirror while the tub filled, assessing the damage that had been done to my body by my father’s magic. Livid bruises stood out against my skin, my magic hesitant and faltering as it tried to repair the damage. From experience, I knew it would take days or more, so though I was exhausted, I painted illusion to cover the marks as I’d done so many times before. Until all that remained was a beautiful troll girl, every one of her flaws hidden within.

  Don’t you think it’s time you earned the right to live?

  “Penny?”

  I whirled around to face my sister. “I’m grateful that you intervened to save my life, Anaïs, but I’ve no interest in speaking to you right now.”

  Her eyes widened and she took a step back. “Penny, let me explain. I was only trying to protect you.”

  “Only?” The water in the tub boiled, the air filling with steam. “I think this smacks of revenge. Because of me, your chance to be with Tristan was destroyed, so now you’re doing the same to my chances with Marc.”

  Silence.

  Then she said, “There was never a chance of you bonding Marc. Before, Father would never have allowed it. Now the King won’t, and neither… neither will Tristan. He’ll never allow Marc to take that sort of risk.”

  Mockery would have hurt less than the pity in her voice. Because what she said was true.

  “I wasn’t expecting him to bond me.” The words croaked out, forced from a throat so tight it barely felt like I could breathe. “We don’t need to be bonded to be together.”

  “Oh, Penny. You know there isn’t a future in that. Not for someone in his position.”

  Stupid foolish dreams. “You should’ve let Father kill me.”

  Anaïs flinched. “Don’t say that. Don’t act as though your life ceases to be worth living because you can’t be bonded.”

  I stared at her through the steam, furious that she didn’t understand why what she’d done was so horrible. “I’ve lived nearly my entire life believing I’d be alone, Anaïs. It’s an old hurt, and one to which I’ve long been reconciled.”

  “But–”

  “What you’ve asked of me is worse than being alone,” I said. “If I don’t do what Father wants, of a surety, he’ll find a way to see me dead. But if I do – if I fight to live – I’ll have to stomach something far worse than being alone: the knowledge that I’ve betrayed the trust of someone I care about to save my own skin.” I looked her up and down. “But apparently for you, that’s no trouble at all.”

  Anaïs’s jaw tightened. “What possible incentive could I have to make Roland king, Penny? Father is the only one who can control his madness, which, if Roland assumed the throne, would render Father indispensable to everyone in Trollus, while both of us would become wholly disposable. We’d both have knives in our backs within hours of Roland’s coronation. What you saw just now is my way of ensuring those knives don’t show their faces sooner rather than later. As long as we remain useful to Father, he’ll be content to keep both of us alive. We need to play the game.”

  I stared at her.

  “If you don’t do this, the only way I’m going to be able to keep you safe is to kill both Father and Grandmother,” she said. “Is that what you want?”

  Was it? I wasn’t sure. All my life, my father had controlled every aspect of my existence. Had treated me like a burden because my magic was weak and I was afflicted in the worst sort of ways. But he was still our father, and I didn’t want her to bear the burden of having ended his life just for the sake of eliminating a threat against mine. Anaïs might act as though she was untouchable, but I was her sister. I knew her better than that.

  Misreading my silence, she said, “I’ll do it, if that’s what you want. But the King might well have me executed for it. I’m not above the law.”

  My stomach clenched. “Surely Tristan wouldn’t allow that to happen?”

  She didn’t respond, only turned her head to look at our reflections in the mirror. And in that moment, I hated Tristan more than I ever believed possible. His behavior had always disgusted me – his total disregard for the lives of half-bloods and humans alike. But the idea that he’d made my sister feel like her life was equally worthless? That was too much.

  Except doing this meant betraying Marc. Manipulating him and using our friendship to bring down his cousin.

  But was that such a bad thing? I’d seen his discomfort with the way Tristan behaved, which was so at odds with his own kind treatment to those considered beneath him. I’d always believed him loyal to his cousin, but how much of that loyalty was forced upon him by circumstance? Was it possible he might be better off freed from the service of a future tyrant?

  Maybe our father was right, in a way. Maybe it was time Montigny rule of Trollus ended. If our family took control, it would be Anaïs who’d sit on the throne, either at Roland’s side or better yet, without him. She’d be Queen, and Trollus would thrive under her rule. If I had the opportunity to help make that happen, shouldn’t I take it?

  “All right,” I s
aid, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Six

  Marc

  I found Tristan at the twins’ manor, the three of them surrounded by books, though my cousin appeared to be the only one studying, half a teacake in one hand, the other scribbling calculations on a scrap piece of paper.

  “Examinations?” I asked, taking a seat across from him.

  He nodded and finished his cake. “Next week.”

  Royal children all trained with the Builders’ Guild – the heirs because they’d take control of the tree along with the crown, and their siblings, just in case they should find themselves on the throne. I had only a rudimentary understanding of the craft, having studied economics in preparation for assuming my father’s role, but as Tristan pulled a large schematic in front of him, I recognized the cavern over Trollus as well as the tree. What he was sketching over the top of the diagram was unfamiliar to me. “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he muttered, tapping his pencil against his chin. “An idea… Or not. We shall see.”

  “It’s now or never, I suppose,” Victoria said from across the room, and both twins left off what they were doing and rose.

  “Good luck,” Tristan said to them. “Remember, cheating is always a valid option.”

  They grinned as they departed, and I shook my head at him. “You’re a bad influence.”

  He inclined his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dropping the pencil, he leaned back in his chair, the doors to the room clicking shut, magic shutting out sight and sound. “Well?”

  “The half-blood ranks are growing,” I said. “More and more are committing to the cause, are swearing that they’ll fight when it comes to it, but…”

  “But?”