The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(31)

My father shifted, his shoulders rigid, and my heart roared in my ears for fear that he would turn and see the distortion of my illusion.

Báthory cackled. “The half-bloods loathe him even more than they do his father,” she said. “From their own lips I’ve heard their disdain, and their fear. Just last month I watched him throw a servant in the river because the girl had spilled a drop of sauce on his sleeve.”

I was almost to the tunnel leading under the gazebo. Digging my fingers and toes into the magic beneath me, I reached up with one hand and caught at the edge, holding myself in place against the current, but blissfully out of sight.

My grandmother made a noise of disgust. “And what fate would’ve befallen the servant if it had been your sleeve, my lady?”

“The river would’ve run red,” Báthory responded, her voice dreamy – clearly missing the point. But I hadn’t. I’d witnessed the same incident and knew for a fact the half-blood had come out of the incident unscathed but for her drenched livery. Tristan could have done much worse, and no one would have cared. But he hadn’t. And, as I bent my memory to the task, I realized he never had injured a half-blood beyond the slice of his cruel words. Just how much of his behavior was an act?

“But Your Grace, we’ve had him followed for weeks and weeks,” a man’s voice said, and I recognized it as belonging to one of my cousins. “He’s not meeting with them.”

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t leading them through an agent.”

Sweat trickled down my forehead, the magic beneath me trembling with the effort it took to sustain its shape. But I had to hear this.

“Who do you favor for the role?”

“The Biron boy is the obvious choice – those other two fools he keeps company with haven’t the wherewithal for the task.”

The gazebo filled with laughter.

“You jest, Your Grace,” someone said. “Marc Biron is a broken boy content to hide in the shadows. He barely has the bravery to speak to a crowd of three, much less muster the enthusiasm of thousands of half-bloods.”

Fury gave my magic strength and my raft steadied beneath me. Their mockery didn’t surprise me, but still I hated that they’d judge Marc so cruelly. He was twice the man of any of those present.

“What about Ana?s?” Báthory asked. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes, and even to those without, that she’s in love with Tristan.”

The gazebo grew silent, and I prayed no one would hear the water sloshing over my raft, my fingernails scraping against the stone.

“Ana?s is no sympathizer,” my father said, and my blood chilled. “From her own lips she has told me that she believes half-bloods and humans to be inferior to us.”

Which is exactly why she was fighting on their behalf. A latent pang of guilt bit at my insides as I remembered how I’d accused her otherwise.

“Our focus,” my father said, “must be on capturing their leader.”

“How?”

“We know the sympathizers are meeting in the Dregs. When the time is right, I propose a raid to catch the Biron boy in the act.”

“And then what?” Báthory asked. “Attempt to force the information that Tristan is the true leader of the revolution out of him? Do you honestly believe the King will allow us to torture his nephew, the son of his closest advisor?”

“Hardly.” My father snorted with amusement. “We publicly deliver Marc to the King and leave Thibault to extract the information by whatever means he sees fit. He’ll have no choice.”

My raft wobbled, and I sank deeper in the water, unable to stop bits of magic from breaking away. And I had nothing more to give. My dress was drenched, my body trembling with effort. Another minute, and I’d be in the water, which would see me either dead or caught. And I needed to get this information to Marc.

“And if the boy won’t turn on his cousin?” Báthory asked. “A lack of loyalty isn’t one of his faults – he might well take the information to the grave rather than betray Tristan.”

“Leave that to me,” my father responded. “I–”

The current tugged insistently at my raft, and my fingers slipped. I floated through the tunnel, unable to hear what his response was, or if he’d even given one. All that mattered now was making it clear of his traps. Of getting out of the atrium and out of my house to warn Marc of my father’s plans.

Tears of effort streamed down my face as I exited the tunnel, but still I looked up.

Prince Roland looked down. He cocked his head slightly to the side, clearly recognizing my weakening illusion for what it was, and smiled.

Fear like nothing I’d ever known filled me, the current suddenly sluggish and slow and doing nothing to whisk me away.

A filament of magic nudged the edge of my raft and I wobbled. Roland’s smile grew, and magic nudged me again, harder this time. My leg slipped off the edge, and I jerked it back, clinging to the soft mess that was sinking deeper and deeper.

My breath came in fast little gasps, but there was nothing I could do but watch as the mad prince reached out one little hand and flicked his finger.

My magic disappeared and I sank like a stone, my bare feet hitting the stream bed.

Nothing happened.

Barely an inch ahead of my toes I felt the faintest warmth of magic, but luck or fate or the stars had allowed the current to pull me just beyond the reach of my father’s trap. But Roland knew someone was here. Knew there was a spy in his midst.