I said, stopping a healthy distance from the barrier and dropping into a deep curtsey. “Bow,” I hissed under my breath.
Prince Roland de Montigny cocked his head and eyed us as though we were insects. “Good evening, Cécile.”
Why was Roland here? Where was the King?
“It’s hard to see you there, standing in the dark,” he said. “Come closer.”
I licked my parched lips. The barrier kept him caged, but I didn’t want to go any nearer to the monster who’d nearly taken my life. Roland got to his feet. “Come closer,” he said. “I want to look at you.”
“Stay here,” I murmured to Chris and, against all my instincts, walked toward the barrier. My heart raced and sweat trickled down my back. He was just a child, but I was utterly terrified of him. More so than even the King or Angoulême, because at least they were sane. No matter how calm and civilized he was pretending to be, the thing standing before me was not. He was mad, unpredictable, treacherous, and very, very dangerous.
“Closer,” he crooned. “Closer.”
My boots scraped along the ground as I inched forward, not certain precisely where the barrier lay. Abruptly, I felt the air thicken and I recoiled back a pace, heart in my throat. And like a snake whose prey has moved beyond reach, his little form relaxed, no longer poised to strike. He’d wanted me to come within reach so that he could finish what he started that fateful day in the Dregs.
I held up my hand. “You can see well enough from there.”
Roland ignored my hand and my words, but his lips pulled back, revealing little straight white teeth. “Scared?”
Terrified.
“Where is your brother?” I asked. “Where is Tristan?”
Roland’s grin intensified. “They dug a special hole for him in prison.” He giggled, the sound of it high-pitched, childish, and horrifying. “He doesn’t get out much.”
He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the apparent humor was too much for him and his giggles turned into shrieks of laughter that echoed through the tunnel. I took a step back and nearly collided with Chris, who’d worked his way closer during the exchange. His face was pale. Though I’d told him about Roland, nothing could have prepared him for such a creature.
I turned back to Roland. “You find it amusing that your elder brother and heir to the throne is in prison?”
The boy’s laughter cut off. “Tristan isn’t heir any longer. I am.”
I shook my head, not so much to deny he was telling the truth, but more at the sheer horror of the devil in front of me one day ruling the kingdom. Either way, my denial incensed him.
“I will be King!” he screamed, and flung himself at me. I leapt back, but my heel snagged on my dress and I toppled to the ground. Chris’s hands caught my arms and heaved me far out of reach, but not out of sight of Roland throwing himself over and over against the barrier, his fists splitting open and healing in an instant, his blood splattering the magic that caged him and rendering it visible. The rocks shook and trembled as his power hammered against the curse, muffling his screams. But nothing could spare us the feral rage written across his face – an expression void of any form of sanity.
“Heaven help us,” Chris whispered, our hands locked together as we watched.
The hammering stopped. Roland’s face smoothed into composure, and turning, he bowed low to the troll-light coming down the road. “Father.”
The King walked into view. “You’re making a great deal of noise, boy.”
Roland scowled. “She said Tristan was heir, not me.”
“Did she now?” The King looked through the blood-splattered barrier and caught my eye. “Humans are liars, Roland. You know that. Now go back to the city. The Duke is waiting for you.”
An answer that was no answer. There was hope for Tristan yet.
Roland shot me one last triumphant look, then sped off into the darkness.
“What do you want?” I asked, climbing to my feet. “Why did you have me brought here?”
“Oh, I think you know why,” the King replied. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood off the barrier. He watched us with interest, but said nothing. I stared back until I could stand it no more. “Where is Tristan? I want to see him.”
His chuckle drifted around me. “You’d make a poor politician, Cécile. You’re far too honest about your desires.”