Stolen Songbird (The Malediction Trilogy, #1)(65)

“His son, King Xavier II, also known as the Savior.” Martin’s light moved over to reveal a grim-faced troll with the eyes of a man who has seen too much. “He ascended to the throne at age sixteen, but it was his genius that designed a way in for the river. Trollus would not have survived if not for the fish.

“He was succeeded by King Tristan I, also known as Tristan the Builder. He was the architect of the original structure of the tree. His work reduced the number of trolls required to maintain the ceiling by more than half. He was also responsible for the construction of the moon hole.”

Tristan the Builder was as grim-faced as his father, but as Martin continued his description of the Montigny line, I noticed a return of the haughty expression that Alexis had worn. Even King Marcel III, known to all as Marcel the Dimwit, had a look of self-entitlement.

“What do you suppose they will call His Majesty?” I asked, looking up at Tristan’s father’s portrait. Either it was from many years ago, or the artist had taken a great deal of liberty, because the Thibault in the painting was not the enormously fat man I knew. In fact, he looked eerily like a somewhat older version of Tristan.

“I don’t make a habit of speculating on such things, my lady,” Martin said, but I saw the corners of his mouth creep up.

My vote was for Thibault the Corpulent.

I turned back to the book and flipped to the portrait of Anushka. “Martin, why would she have broken the mountain while she was still in the city? Why risk her own death?”

“No one knows for certain, my lady.”

“And if she was powerful enough to break a mountain, why didn’t she break herself out? Why did she suffer through everything that went on down here for the four weeks it took to dig out, and then curse the trolls?”

Martin shrugged. “It is not in my nature to– “

“Speculate, I know.” I frowned at the book. It simply did not make sense for her to have broken the mountain while she was in the city unless it was some act of suicide. “Could a troll break a mountain?”

“One troll?” He shook his head. “No. Not possible.”

“What about several working together?”

“It’s feasible, I suppose.” He didn’t look very happy at the direction I was going. “But that isn’t what happened. The witch broke the mountain, waited until safety was in our grasp, and then uttered the curse.”

“Are curses anything like troll magic?” I scratched my head. “How is it possible for her to still be alive after so many years? Are you even certain that she is?”

Martin’s face pinched together – apparently I’d offended him. “Troll magic is not the same as human magic, which is to say witchcraft. Not the same in the least. And we know she is alive because the curse is still in place.”

“But how?” I persisted.

“Blood magic, my lady. The dark arts.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Little. It is human magic that draws power from the spilt blood of sacrifice.”

I frowned. “Is all human magic dark? Is blood the only source of power?”

He cleared his throat. “No. My understanding – which, I must reiterate, is limited – is that blood magic is not the norm. Most witches draw power from the earth by tapping into the power of the four elements.”

“What can they do with their power?” I persisted. “Other than curse trolls.”

Martin looked uncomfortable. “A witch can affect the world with the words she speaks. Heal other humans. Convince them to do things.”

My whole body jerked. “What do you mean, ‘convince them to do things’?”

He shrugged. “I mean what I say.”

What he was telling me was alarmingly familiar. “The ability to convince…” Did that mean? The countless times I’d been able to convince the inconvincible scrolled through my mind. Could it be that what I had always attributed to willpower was something else entirely? Sweat broke out on my palms. “Where does troll magic come from?”

“The fifth element: spirit.” He tapped his own chest. “Our magic comes from within. Witches are merely conduits of the earth’s power.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

Martin shrugged one shoulder. “Our ancestors were curious about such things. Foolishly, it turned out, believing that human magic was no danger to our kind. They kept records of what they learned, and we also have documents written by witches themselves.”

He tapped the spine of one of the books he’d brought me. “This is a witch’s grimoire. It was found in Anushka’s rooms after she fled Trollus.”

Tentatively, I reached out and plucked the book from the pile, half-afraid the thing would burst into flames at my touch. It was in surprisingly good condition considering it was over five centuries old. I touched the runes engraved on the cover, which was made of a strange sort of leather that I’d never seen before.

“Human skin,” Martin said helpfully.

I dropped the book.

“Try to open it, my lady,” he said.

Reluctantly, I retrieved the book from where it had fallen. The smooth feel of it beneath my fingers disgusted me. This wasn’t something, it was someone. I tugged on the clasp, gently at first, and then harder. It refused to budge.