Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(61)

Blow after blow struck me in the sides, in the arms, in my face, and there was nothing I could do to get away. Bones cracked and blood splattered the ground, but through it all I saw the face of my attacker. How he sensed my weakness and reveled in it. Then the air stirred, filling with a sound much like a whip being cracked, and through the swelling of my eyes, I watched Guillaume’s head drop to the ground next to me.

“Get up.”

I struggled to rise, and my father’s hand latched under my arm, hauling me to my feet.

My lone defender stood wild-eyed. “I tried to stop him, Your Majesty,” she pleaded.

“Go find others to replace them,” he snarled at her, and she took off running.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to pass out from the pain as he dragged me through the streets to the palace. They were empty as they only were during curfew, but the faces of those peering out from behind windows filled with dismay when they recognized me.

“What’s happened?” I asked, spitting a mouthful of blood.

“Sluag,” he said. “Now keep your mouth shut until we’re behind closed doors.”

He brought me to his office, dropping me unceremoniously on the plush carpets. Going to a tray laden with goodies, he plucked up several linen napkins and a pitcher of water before kneeling next to me and wiping blood off my face.

“That hurts,” I complained, flinching away to get into a better position, the knife tucked into my boot burning against my skin.

“Gives you a bit of a taste of what it’s like to be human.”

Neither his words or his tone were what I’d expected, and I lifted my head. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not.” He rinsed the napkin in the water, then held it to the cut on my cheek. “Winter called your debt. Cécile was here and she told me enough. I sent her to tell you to stay put in Trianon, but it would appear she didn’t make it in time.”

There was never a chance she would.

“Stones and sky, you’re bleeding like a human,” my father muttered, his jaw tightening. Then in one violent motion, he rose to his feet and threw the pitcher against the wall in an explosion of glass. Going to the cold fireplace, he rested his arms on the mantle, head bowed.

And his back to me.

I inched my fingers down to the hidden knife, moving slowly so as not to catch his attention. I’d known without magic that he’d discount me as a threat, would lower his guard. And now was my chance.

Do it!

My hand closed around the hilt, slowly pulling it free.

“You should’ve told me about the debt,” he said. “I could’ve bargained with her. Given her what she wanted in exchange for letting you be.”

I froze.

“Though I suppose I can’t blame you for not trusting me. It was how you were raised.” He sighed deeply. “And now the Winter trickster is free to run around the Isle, slaughtering her enemy’s people at will with no one to stand in her way.”

She wasn’t free, but I’d made sure to make it to Trollus before any of his spies could bring word that she was trapped. It wouldn’t be long now, though, and as soon as he knew, I was sure he’d see through my plot.

Kill him.

I swallowed, my hand still gripping the hilt. “You could stand in her way. You have all of Trollus at your command.”

“I think we both know that’s not the case.”

I bit the inside of my cheeks, unsure of whether he doubted his capacity or his control.

“Besides,” he said. “I can’t leave. You aren’t the only one who’s had to pay the price of a desperate bargain, Tristan.”

Even with the curse broken, he was bound to Trollus. Knowing it was so was like the last piece of the puzzle falling into place, explaining why he hadn’t taken Trianon, why he hadn’t moved to stop Roland and the Duke, and why, given they finally had freedom in their grasp, that he’d locked the citizens of Trollus back in their underground cage. “Who holds this bargain?”

“Your aunt,” he said. “She threatened to drown your mother if I didn’t give my word never to leave Trollus, and for obvious reasons, I can’t kill her to free myself. No one plays the game better than her, and no one is less trusting.”

“Can you blame her?” Pain ricocheted through me as I climbed to my feet, using his desk as leverage. “No one forced you to be a tyrant. That was your choice, and these are the consequences.”

Laughing, he picked up a bottle of liquor sitting on the mantle and drank from it directly. “You remind me of myself at your age. Idealistic.” He took another swallow and grimaced. “So certain you know everything.”

“Since obviously I do not, perhaps you might enlighten me.” The clock was ticking, my chance to put an end to the man who had haunted my steps all my life growing smaller by the second. But I had to hear him out.

He drained the bottle, then turned to face me. “I hated my father as you hate me, perhaps more so, for he was a far worse creature. Perhaps the worst ever to rule, in that he relished in killing. Though they were bonded, he slaughtered your grandmother with his bare hands in front of the court for crossing him, and if it hurt him, he never once showed it.” He paused. “He and Roland were cut from the same cloth.”

I’d heard stories of my grandfather, but they were not given much breath. Why should they be when Trollus had to contend with a living and breathing tyrant king.