Stolen Songbird(53)

“What?”

“I want you to tell me what those papers contain. I want to know why they are so important to you. Why they are so important to Angoulême.”

He laughed. “Of all the things in the world you could ask for, that is what you want?”

I nodded, not fooled by his flippancy. I had taken a chance and struck gold. Of all the things I could have asked for, this was the one he wanted to give up the least, which meant it was valuable. Within his answer lay the truth, the heart of his politics. Yes, I could have asked for him to help me escape, but I’d seen how easy it would be to get around that promise. A bird in hand was worth two on the fly, and if he gave me what I wanted, I was certain I would have something valuable indeed.

“Just because I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you,” he said, stepping forward.

I shook my head. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.” His hand slid around my throat, thumb resting against my fluttering pulse. “I could hurt you in ways that might make you wish for death.”

“You won’t.”

Breath hissed between his teeth. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because if it was in you to torture the information out of me,” I said, “you’d have done it already.” I leaned towards him, and his hand slipped from my throat to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my curls. “You hate the way your father is, how he treats the half-bloods. I heard it in your voice yesterday, but more than that, I felt it.” I pressed a hand against his chest and for the first time ever, he did not recoil at my touch. “You aren’t like him.”

His heart thudded rapidly, the heat of his skin warming my hand through his shirt.

“Life would be much easier if I were,” he said softly. Sighing, he moved back, putting an arm’s length of distance between us. “You drive a hard bargain, but I suppose I have no choice.”

“You do have a choice,” I said. “That’s what makes this difficult.”

A faint smile brushed his lips.

“Tell me,” I urged.

He rested his head against the bars above my head and I felt the great burden of his misery press down on my shoulders, words bursting out of him in a wild torrent: “I didn’t want you brought here. I fought my father’s decision at every turn, but he wouldn’t listen. All he cares about is breaking the curse. He will stop at nothing to get free.”

“I could help you,” I said, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “If I broke the curse, your father would have no reason not to let me go.” I knew his feelings about the curse were complex, and it was high time I got to the bottom of them.

“No!” Tristan jerked away from me, eyes wide. “I mean…” He held up one hand. “Breaking the curse has consequences.”

“You don’t say.” I crossed my arms.

Tristan grimaced. “Do you want my father released on the world?”

“Hardly,” I snapped. “I’d like to see him dead, but fat as he is, I don’t suspect he intends on keeling over for a long time.”

“What he intends may not matter,” he replied softly. “If everything goes according to plan. My plan.”

An odd sense of relief went through me at his admission. “You’re a sympathizer. You’re their leader, aren’t you?”

He nodded and took hold of my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. “If you betray me to Angoulême, he’ll tell my father. And my father won’t just kill me. He’ll kill Zoé and élise, and countless others you haven’t even met. And even if by some miracle you survive my death, he’ll make sure it isn’t for long.”

“I understand,” I said. “You have my word that I won’t say anything.”

Still gripping my shoulders, he said, “In a year, I’ll be eighteen, which is when troll magic matures and reaches its full strength. I’m…” He hesitated. “I’m already a match for him now. By then, I’ll be stronger. Stronger than any troll alive; and in Trollus, power is king.”

I gasped. “You intend to depose your own father?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and let go of me. “In a manner of speaking.”

Coldness swept over me. “You plan to kill him.”

“Sometimes,” he said, so quietly I could barely hear him, “one must do the unthinkable.”