Stolen Songbird (The Malediction Trilogy, #1)(86)

I cupped Tristan’s cheek and felt a whisper of breath against my hand. “You don’t know that.”

Marc grasped my arm and shoved me back. “He’s dying because of you!”

There was murder in his eyes and I shrank away from the closest thing I’d had to a friend in Trollus.

“This is your fault, Cécile,” he hissed. “He would have done anything for you, and this is how you repay him!” Power shoved me backwards like two hands pushing against my chest. “Get away from him.”

“You have no right to keep me from him,” I said. Immediately I knew I’d gone too far. Power pushed me out of the hole and I tripped, landing half on the body of the sluag. Marc came after me and I scrambled to my feet. He raised a hand to hit me, and I ducked my head under my arm and waited for the blow. It never came. I looked up and saw Marc standing frozen, his face twisted in fury. “I promised never to harm you,” he choked out. His eyes flicked to Vincent. “But you didn’t.”

The big troll shook his head sadly. “If he lives, he won’t forgive us for hurting her,” he said. “And frankly, I couldn’t forgive myself.” Then he looked at me. “If he dies, her head won’t stay on her shoulders for long.”

“Take her back to Trollus,” Marc snapped. He and several of the other trolls slid into the small chamber and moments later, they emerged with Tristan’s limp form. Marc looked over at Vincent. “Mind she doesn’t stab you in the back on the way.”

I flinched, but said nothing.

I had dropped Tristan’s ball of light when Marc pushed me, but it floated in my direction now. Grabbing hold of the magic, I held it up to my other hand and examined my tattoo. It was a dull grey now, but not black like those on Marc’s hand. And I could feel Tristan, faintly, almost like when he was sleeping. He was still alive. I saw Vincent looking at my marks as well. “He won’t die,” I said.

Vincent nodded slowly. “For your sake, for all our sakes, I hope that is so.” Then, with his iron fist locked around my arm, we made our way back to Trollus.





He left me alone with Zoé and élise in the chambers where they had once prepared me for bonding. Neither spoke to me, but I could feel their anger and sorrow thick in the air. It suited my mood well.



It took three tubs full of bathwater to get the sluag stench off me, and I think they did it not for my comfort, but for their own. As they scrubbed my skin raw, I watched the grey marks on my hand grow darker, less metallic, and the feeling of Tristan in my mind grew fainter by the minute. Tears drizzled out of my eyes, but the girls wiped them away as though they were mere condensation from the bath.

I made no comment when they twisted my hair back into a severe knot or when they brought in a black silk mourning gown and laced the corset so tight I could barely breathe. They were acting like he was dead already, when I knew he wasn’t. When they’d finished with me, I stood in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at me appeared haggard, a decade older than I was. Her blue eyes were dull and swollen red from tears and the corners of her mouth turned down. I turned away from my reflection and resumed my vigil, eyes fixed on my hand.

“You were supposed to be our salvation,” élise said. “We did everything we could to help you, and this is how you repay us? By trying to escape?”

I remained silent, refusing to look at her. There was nothing I could say.

“I can’t decide if you’re happy or sad that he’s dead,” Zoé said, and something inside me snapped.

“He’s not dead!” I screamed, my hands balled into fists. “He’s not dead,” I repeated. Turning away from her, I fell to my knees and sobbed silently.

I was still on the floor when the guards came, and their rough hands lifted me and dragged my uncooperative form through the palace and into the open air. I looked up only when I felt the mist from the river hit my face and saw thousands of trolls standing all around, their eyes fixed on me. It was eerily similar to my wedding day, except this time I stood alone. And in place of an altar, there stood a guillotine.

Tristan’s father walked away from the cluster of noblemen, managing to carry himself in a stately manner despite his bulk. His eyes were puffy and red, but when he stopped in front of me, I saw that his cheeks were dry.

He cleared his throat. “There is nothing to say other than I would kill you a thousand times for what you have done, were it possible.” I said nothing. “Because of you,” the King continued, “the house de Montigny is ended. We’ve ruled Trollus for nearly fourteen hundred years, and it is finished. Because of you!”

Anger rose up inside me. He cared nothing for Tristan his son, only for Tristan the heir. His dismay was not for the loss of his child, but for the loss of power and glory. I rose up to my full height and glared at the King. “If that’s all you care about, then it’s a good thing you have two heirs!”

“Roland isn’t Tristan!” the King screamed at me.

“Kill her!” someone from the crowd shouted.

“She’s a traitor!” It was the half-bloods who screamed this – accusing me not of treason against the king and crown, but against their leader and their cause.

“I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”