The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)
Danielle L. Jensen
For Melissa, who loves my characters
as much as I do. This one is for you!
Prologue
Marc
Blackness fell across the city, and with it came silence, the crowd of onlookers seeming to collectively hold their breaths as the edge of the moon appeared in the sole opening in the cavern’s rocky ceiling far above us. The silver orb inched into view, casting a stream of light down through the mist to fall upon the pair standing on the marble dais at the center of the river, their faces bright with nerves and anticipation as they waited for the magic to take hold. For the bond between their hearts and minds to be formed, remaining unbroken until one of them–
“And Liquid Shackles claims another two victims.”
Tristan’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I glanced at my cousin, who stood next to me watching the proceedings. “You’re a cynic,” I muttered under my breath.
“I’m a realist, Marc,” he replied, raising his hands to clap along with the rest of those watching the ceremony. “I can imagine little worse than having another’s emotions invading my skull for the rest of my days.”
“Because she won’t be able to pretend your jests are funny?” I suggested, turning to avoid the dark look our Aunt Sylvie, the Queen’s conjoined twin, was casting in our direction. Bondings were the most sacrosanct of our ceremonies, made more so by the fact they grew more and more infrequent as our race diminished and declined within the confines of the curse.
“Why would she have to pretend? Everyone knows I’m the epitome of wit.” Tristan grinned, then turned on his heel to carve through the crowd, nobility and commoners alike making way for their crown prince.
I followed, but couldn’t help one backward glance over my shoulder at the knot of trolls on the opposite side of the river from the King and Queen, searching their faces for one in particular. Pénélope stood arm-in-arm with her younger sister, Ana?s, their faces nearly touching, both of them laughing over some comedy that none of the nobility grouped around them seemed to appreciate. Although whether they appreciated the humor or not, every eligible man in their vicinity eyed them hungrily.
And for good reason.
Both were beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes of molten silver, but their desirability went beyond appearances. Beyond, even, that they were the daughters of the Duke d’Angoulême, who was reckoned the most influential aristocrat in Trollus after the King.
Pénélope and Ana?s were unafflicted.
Nearly every full-blooded troll was stricken in some way by the iron that bound us to this world, the toxic metal having stolen our ancestors’ immortality and then begun the slow process of poisoning and changing everyone who’d been born since. Madness, illness, disfigurement... Among our generation’s peerage, only the two girls and Tristan remained entirely untouched.
I’d not been so lucky.
As though sensing my scrutiny, Pénélope turned in my direction, and I lifted a hand before jerking it back down to my side as I caught sight of her father watching me over her head.
Tristan suffered no similar self-consciousness, raising a hand to waggle his fingers at the Duke, his mockery catching the attention of many of those around us, who shifted uneasily. The rivalry between the Montignys and the Angoulêmes was old as time, and no one wanted to be caught between them. Neither Tristan nor the Duke could risk it coming to blows with half a mountain’s worth of rock balanced precariously over our heads, but both families had a great deal of practice extracting their pound of flesh without resorting to magic.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.
Tristan only shrugged. “Better he think me an obnoxious royal brat than the alternative.”
The alternative. Sympathizer. Revolutionary. Traitor. It was a struggle not to lift a shield of magic to ward our conversation, but that would only make us appear as though we had something to hide. The Duke led the faction set on uprooting and destroying those sympathetic to the half-bloods’ plight, and finding out the identity of the revolution’s leadership was his priority. The last thing we needed was him discovering proof that the leadership was us.
Tristan and I made our way toward the palace gates, the illuminators working quickly to fill the crystal sconces, the magic having been extinguished for the sake of the ceremony. The lights revealed sections of white stonework, but the rest of the enormous building remained consigned to shadow. Much like the rest of Trollus. Much like me.
The party was in one of the larger courtyards, strands of silver wire and illuminated glass draped above fountains that sprayed mist into the air. Half-blood servants dressed in Montigny livery were already circulating, carrying trays of sparkling wine and delicacies imported at great cost from beyond the curse’s barrier. From the human world.
Tristan’s magic abruptly lifted two glasses off a passing tray, and he laughed as the half-blood girl struggled to keep the unbalanced contents from toppling to the ground, her magic catching at the sliding stemware and accidentally shattering one of the glasses.
Wine splattered across Tristan’s coat, soaking into the expensive fabric. He stopped laughing.
The half-blood stared at him in horror as silence fell across the courtyard, even the musicians’ fingers stilling on their instruments. “I am so sorry, Your Highness.”
“Sorry?” His voice was icy, and despite knowing it was all an act on his part, discomfort twisted in my stomach, because the half-blood didn’t know. Her fear was real.
“Tristan,” I said, because I had my own part to play in this ruse. “Let it go.”
If he heard me, he didn’t show it, and magic twisted through the air, invisible, but tangible. Dangerous.
The half-blood took one step back. Then another. But even if she fled, she would not get far.
Suddenly, the shards of broken glass rose from the ground, turning into floating liquid blobs that hovered between the half-blood and us. They drifted together, swirling and coalescing until the glass reformed. Droplets of wine eased out of Tristan’s sleeve to drip, one by one, into the vessel, turning to mist as they hit the heated glass.
“There.” Pénélope’s voice filled the air, soft and musical, and she took hold of the now-cool stem with slender fingers. “No damage done.”
Tension still clung to the courtyard, everyone watching. Waiting. Then Tristan clapped his hands together. “A nice trick, Pénélope.”