Stolen Songbird(100)

“I don’t think that’s advisable,” Tristan said, and he pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead.

I felt his dizziness and pain like it was my own and rested a hand against the wet rock to keep my balance. “Perhaps not.”

“We need to move,” Tristan responded, refusing to look at me. “There isn’t much time.”





It did not take long for me to discover how Tristan had moved with such speed through the labyrinth. Magic flooded out ahead of us as we ran, making the uneven tunnels smooth as a marble corridor and springy as a grassy meadow. Where I had had to climb up and down piled boulders, he created glowing platforms that bridged the gaps. Even the spots where I had to drop to my hands and knees were made easier by the free-floating orbs that lit our path. He did not pause or even glance at the path markers, his knowledge of these tunnels ingrained through years of exploration, or perhaps by some knowledge innate to his kind. But Tristan was right: we did not have much time.



The venom was in his blood, coursing through his veins, and slowly, but surely, numbing his senses. He stumbled with greater frequency and his breath came in great heaving gasps whereas I was barely winded. And I could feel the haze in his mind, the growing confusion. He slowed to a walk, which quickly became a stagger. Then, to my horror, he fell to his knees.

“Tristan!” I swung his uninjured arm around my shoulder and tried to pull him to his feet, but he pushed me aside. His normally hot skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and his hand trembled in mine.

“Here.” He beckoned to the orb of light and it floated close to us. “Take it,” he said.

“I can’t!” I said, but at the sight of his pained expression, I reached out and sunk my fingers into the warm power. To my amazement, it didn’t flow away as it usually did, but maintained its form and followed my hand.

“Take it and go,” he whispered, slumping against me.

I eased him down so that he lay with his head on my lap. “I’m not leaving you to be eaten by a giant slug,” I said, hoping the false confidence in my voice would overpower the fear he must have known I felt.

“You have to go. The sluag will not stop until it finds us.”

“Let it come.”

“Cécile!” I could hear the frustration in his voice, weak as it was. “There is no sense in you staying. No one survives a sluag sting for long – I’m going to die. You need to get out of the labyrinth, past the barrier of the curse, and as far away as you can run. The distance will make it hurt less for you when my light goes out.”

A sob tore its way out of my throat. “Marc will find us before the sluag.”

“Even worse.” Tristan’s voice was barely audible now. “You will serve no purpose with me gone. My father will have you killed, and he won’t be as quick about it as the sluag.” He groaned in pain and a tear rolled down my filthy cheek. “Take the light and try to get out while you still can.”

“I’m not leaving you for that thing to eat while you’re still alive,” I whispered. “If it costs me my life, then so be it.”

“Stubborn until the end…” He sighed softly. “Stay until I’m dead then, but promise me when it’s over, you’ll find a way out. Promise me you’ll live.”

Feeling his panic and fear was hard enough, but seeing it written in hard lines across his face was even worse. His militant self-control was slipping, and I could see the true magnitude of his terror. And still he was thinking of me.

“No,” I said. “I won’t promise anything, because that would mean giving up. You won’t die, you won’t die.”

For a moment, Tristan’s fear turned to anger. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!”

“Then don’t let it end this way.” Never before had I felt such a pure sense of helplessness. Why couldn’t I have the power to help him, to make Tristan well again?

“Cécile!” He writhed in pain, his grip grinding the bones in my hand together. I closed my eyes and images of the sluag assaulted me. I would be powerless to stop it. It would sting me and then turn on Tristan. My mind recoiled at the thought of me lying there, paralyzed by venom, but still conscious enough to watch the monster strip the flesh from his face.

“No,” I whispered. “I won’t let it happen.” Pushing up his sleeve, I examined the cuts I had made. Not only had they not healed over with the preternatural speed at which trolls usually healed, they were bleeding profusely. I pressed my hand against them, trying to slow the flow, but crimson liquid seeped through my fingers and coated my hands.