Stolen Songbird(21)

“Trollus isn’t all bad,” he said, pulling me out into the hallway. I wasn’t certain whether he was trying to convince me or himself.

Despite the release of curfew, we met no one on our way. The palace seemed to be devoid of life until we reached the vaulted front entrance. The King and Queen stood waiting, surrounded by a handful of grey-clad, black-and white-sashed attendants. Tristan sat on a bench near them, head in his hands. At the sound of my heels, he leapt abruptly to his feet, but I found I could not meet his gaze. Instead I approached his parents and dropped into a deep curtsey.

“Your Majesties.” Turning in Tristan’s direction, but keeping my eyes lowered, I added, “Your Highness.”

“Let me see her!”

I had forgotten about the Duchesse.

The Queen dutifully turned about, and her sapphire-bedecked sister peered at me, her orb of troll-light dancing so close that my eyes watered from the brightness. “See, Thibault, I told you she would clean up quite nicely.”

“Hmmm,” the King said, looking over me much as my father did a cow at auction. “Smells better, at least.” He flapped his hand in the Queen’s direction. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to wait another month for a moon to find out if this will work.” With the Queen at his side, the King swiftly departed through the enormous front entry, servants fluttering ahead of them. Marc had disappeared while I had been making my courtesies, and now only Tristan and I stood in the cold entrance. He watched me with those inhuman eyes, expression bland, perhaps even a bit bored.

“You look exceptionally… colorful.”

My cheeks and chest flushed a blotchy red. “I didn’t choose the dress, my lord,” I replied stiffly.

“I wasn’t talking about the dress. I’ve only seen human hair that color in paintings, and I was certain the artists were being fanciful. It’s more noticeable now that you’ve cleaned up…” He paused, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “And it’s somewhat brighter in here. See the lamps?” He broke off. “Of course you see them. I just meant… Your hair is very red.”

Mortified, my skin flared so hot I thought it might burn clear off my bones. I fought the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on the gown and muttered, “I didn’t get to choose the color of my hair, either.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to add further insult to injury, but I shot him a dark look and he wisely shut it again.

A young troll stepped through the entrance. “Your Highness.” He held out a tray with two crystal glasses filled with a glowing blue liquid. Tristan examined them. “Do you suppose it would be inappropriate,” he asked the servant, “for me to top them up a bit with some whiskey?”

The servant stared at him, expression horrified, tray trembling in his hand. “I suppose you’re right,” Tristan said glumly, although the man hadn’t spoken a word. He took the two glasses and handed me one of them. “Cheers!”

I took it and eyed the contents with suspicion. “What is it? Not some sort of poison, I hope?”

“I call it Liquid Shackles. It has another name, but I prefer to use my own inventions. As to its nature, well…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it isn’t harmful, but it certainly won’t kill you. At least it shouldn’t – we’ve never had a human drink any before.”

“Why do you call it Liquid Shackles?” I asked, pursing my lips. I did not like the sound of that one bit.

“Because it is a clever metaphor,” he replied, holding the glass up to examine it more closely. I waited for him to explain further, but it was clear he had no intention of elaborating.

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

He cocked one eyebrow and gave me a dour look.

“I suppose you’ll just force it down my throat,” I muttered.

“Certainly not,” he said, lowering the glass. “It is always better to delegate nefarious tasks. You know, to keep one’s reputation intact.”

I scowled, but all my dark look garnered was a grin from him. “Keep in mind that I have to drink it too.”

“What does it taste like?” I asked.

“Having never been bonded before, I haven’t the foggiest idea. But I expect quite vile.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Bottoms up!” He drowned the liquid in one mouthful.

Resigned, I sipped mine carefully. It tasted a bit like honey, only sweeter. A slow, but not unpleasant, warmth swept down my throat and into my stomach, spreading out from there. I took another small sip and then another until the glass was drained. “Quite lovely, really,” I murmured. The room seemed brighter, and I swayed slowly from foot to foot as though caught in some unheard rhythm. The pain of all my injuries faded away and I felt languid, blissful. “Are you certain there was no liquor in that?” I asked, my voice dreamy.