Stolen Songbird (The Malediction Trilogy, #1)(101)

“He’s right.”

I looked at Tristan, who stood with his arms crossed, his face bleak. “No, he isn’t,” I replied. I made my voice firm, but it would be a lie to say I was as confident about that fact as I had been an hour ago.

Tristan refused to meet my gaze, instead, he gestured to the troll holding Jér?me. “Let him go.”

Jér?me staggered as the magic released him and hurried over to his son. Chris was on his feet now, holding onto the edge of the wagon to keep his balance. Jér?me cuffed him hard. “Blasted fool! What were you thinking?” He turned to Tristan and bowed. “My deepest apologies, Your Highness. The lad is young, impulsive.”

Tristan didn’t reply, only watched me in silence. Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a gold coin through the air at Jér?me, who caught it. “For the peach she ate.”

Jér?me looked at the coin glittering in his palm. Then he tossed it back. “We’ve already been paid for the load, my lord. Market rate, not a penny more, not a penny less.” He inclined his head to Tristan. “We know your rules, and we follow them.” The last bit I was certain he directed at his son, but if Chris heard, it did not register on his face.

“You’re a good man, Jér?me,” Tristan said, voice heavy as he turned away from us.

I watched the trolls make way for him as he strode out of the market, and then I glared at Chris. “You’re wrong about them. You’re wrong about him.” Grabbing up my skirts, I ran after Tristan, guards hot on my heels.





I found him in a tavern that did not normally cater to noblemen. Not that it was rough or run down – nothing in Trollus was – but it carried the less expensive products that appealed to the working class – the half-bloods. Noon had not yet passed, and the room was empty except for Tristan and the proprietor, who was drying a glass with the vigor of an anxious man. “Something to drink, my lady?” he asked as I made my way through the tables. I shook my head and sat down across from Tristan. A glass with amber liquid sat in front of him untouched, the sharp scent of whiskey rising up to assault my nostrils. A dark bottle sat corked next to his hand.



“My gran always said that drink might make you forget your problems, but it doesn’t solve anything,” I said. “Besides, I’ve never even seen a drunk troll.”

“Your gran had a lot to say.” Tristan swished the liquid around the glass and tossed it back.

“Most grandmothers have a lot to say. And they are usually right.”

“Perhaps I’d be wiser if mine were still alive to fill my ears with such helpful proverbs.”

He reached for the bottle, but I pulled it away. “No.”

His hand dropped to the table. “You should go, Cécile.”

“No.” Every inch of me felt cold beneath the weight of his misery.

“I hurt you. I nearly killed your friend for speaking the truth. For touching you.” He rested his chin in his hands. “He was right. Everything he said was true.”

“Not everything,” I whispered. “I love you, Tristan. I want to be here with you.”

“I should have distracted your guards and let him steal you away in his wagon,” Tristan said, his eyes blank and distant. “He fancies you – has for a long time, I think. He’d make a good husband. You could live on a farm with golden wheat fields and have golden-haired babies.” He sounded almost wistful.

“No!” Tears trickled down my face, my misery magnifying his until I felt overwhelmed.

“Under the sun, with your family. That’s where you belong.”

Every inch of me hurt. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Tristan was going to send me away because he thought that deep down it was what I wanted. He would think he was doing it for my own good, that I would be happier. But the thought of never seeing his face, or feeling the heat of his skin against mine, his lips against my lips, caused greater pain than any torturer could devise.

“I was planning on leaving them anyway, and besides…” I struggled to articulate myself. Even if ten years passed between now and the time I saw my family, they’d still be my family. They’d still love me as much and the same way as they always had. But if Tristan and I were parted for ten years? What was between us was new and fragile. Time would not leave it unscathed, and the thought of losing it broke my heart. “You’re more important to me now,” I finally said.

My words finally snapped him out of his miserable reverie, and his eyes focused on me. “You don’t mean that. The distance would diminish the bond. You’d think about us less and less until one day your time in Trollus would seem like a bad dream that left a strange mark on your hand.”

I wiped the wet streaks off my face with my sleeve and met his eyes. “And would you forget about me? Would the memory of the human girl you married and loved fade away until it seemed like she was just a bad dream?”

His eyes darkened and he looked away. “No. Never.”

“Then how can you believe I would forget?” I reached for his hands, but he pulled them off the table. “I love you, Tristan. Given the choice, I would stay. You must believe that.”

“I can’t.” His voice was so quiet I barely heard him.

“Why?” I slammed my fists down on the table. “Why can’t you believe me? Why don’t you trust me?”