18
Tristan
The Guerre boards dropped to the ground, and I threw up a shield to block the flying glass. My aunt did the same, attempting to protect my mother, but it was a wasted effort. The magic that had shattered the mirrors was stronger, and the outward force coming from my mother tossed aside my aunt’s magic with ease. Razor-sharp shards cut into my mother’s skin and shredded her clothes, but she barely seemed to notice. Her face was slick with blood and contorted with irrational fury, the like of which I had only seen before on Roland. The comparison terrified me, because it meant that she couldn’t be reasoned with. Only force would stop her.
Motion in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Élise stood in the open doorway, a tray of food lying in disarray at her feet. “Move!” I shouted, but it was too late. My mother had already rounded on her, eyes seeing yet unseeing.
I leapt between the two, the blow directed at the half-blood girl making my shield quake and sending me staggering back. I collided with Élise, and both of us tumbled into the hallway. A second later, another blow impacted the walls, only the thousand years of magic layering them keeping everything from collapsing down on top of us.
I clambered to my feet, hauling Élise up with me. “Run,” I ordered her. “Find my father and tell him what’s happening.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stop her.”
I grimly wrapped bands of power around the manacles on my wrists, and before I could lose my nerve, jerked them apart. The pain almost drove me to my knees, but with it came relief as my magic surged, no longer limited by the toxic metal. Steeling myself, I stepped back into the room.
The air was thick with dust and smoke, but it was still possible to see the chaos my mother had enacted upon the room. Everything was destroyed, furniture little more than splinters, paintings and tapestries ablaze. The ceiling had partially caved in to reveal the dark cavernous space hanging above the city. I searched the room for my aunt’s light, but there was only the orange glow of fire. My eyes stung, and I coughed on the thickening smoke.
The blow came sharp and sudden, but I was ready for it. Again and again she struck; and through the haze, I caught sight of her coming toward me. My aunt hung limply from her back, and I prayed she was only unconscious, the alternative too terrible to contemplate.
“Mother!” I had to shout over the exploding collisions of our magic. “It’s Tristan.”
But she didn’t seem to hear or recognize me, her mind wholly concerned with inflicting wrath and ruin. The mere act of protecting myself from her assault was exhausting, and I did not see how it would be possible for me to cut her off from her magic. She was too strong, and she was wasting no power on trying to protect herself, forcing me to deflect the collapsing rubble away from both of us. All she cared about was destroying me, and that she might lose her own life in the process didn’t seem to matter.
I needed my father’s help, and I needed it soon—or she was going to pull the entire palace down. And without the walls to contain her, there was the very real chance she might damage the magic of the tree and put all of Trollus in danger. If she did, then I’d be forced to hurt her to stop her, and that I didn’t want to do.
Holding her back was akin to containing a storm. Magic ceaselessly buffeted and slammed up against me, employing no strategy, only mindless force. Smoke and heat blew into my face, rubble piling up beneath my feet and threatening to trip me up. I didn’t know how to stop her. If it had been a duel, I could have killed her easily, but stopping her without hurting her seemed impossible. If I hit her too hard, I might harm her, but if I didn’t hit her hard enough, it would only infuriate her more. All I could think of was keeping her focus on trying to hurt me and minimizing what collateral damage I could.
Please hurry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d desired my father’s presence, but I needed him now. He’d know what to do.
The walls of the adjoining rooms fell in around us, and the floor beneath my feet began to shake. The whole wing of the palace was going to collapse.
“Matilde!”
My mother’s head jerked up at the sound of my father’s voice, and as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. She looked around in bewilderment, seemingly unable to comprehend that she had been the cause of the destruction. “What has happened?”
“Move.” My father shoved me aside, striding through the rubble. With the sleeve of his coat, he wiped the blood off her face, his expression surprisingly anxious. “Are you hurt, darling?”
She shook her head, tears turning pink as they ran down her cheeks. “I was so angry. So angry.” She pressed one hand to her forehead, and my heart ached watching her struggle to remember, her shoulders beginning to shake as the little pieces fit themselves together. “Tristan?” She choked out my name.
“He’s fine.” My father turned his head to look at me as though to prove to himself that I was unharmed. “He’s fine,” he repeated again, pulling her close. “Sylvie?”
“I was looking to redecorate anyway,” my aunt replied. Her words might have been blasé, but not even my mother missed the tremble in her voice.
She broke into racking sobs, and collapsed against my father’s chest. A shimmer of magic appeared around my aunt as she walled herself off from them. I should have left or done the same, but instead I sat down in the rubble and dust, watching my parents.
“I’m sorry, love. This was not your fault—it was mine.” He picked bits of broken rock out of her hair, tried fruitlessly to smooth away the dust, before resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this. I will make everything right.”
And he was sorry, I realized. He was always kind to my mother, but never before had I seen any proof that he might actually care for her. That he might even love her, and that maybe I wasn’t entirely the product of politics and social maneuvering. I held my breath, afraid that even that tiny motion might draw attention to me and disrupt what I was witnessing. I didn’t want it to end, because seeing proof that he cared for my mother meant there was a chance he cared something for me.
Metal clinked against metal. Turning my head, I saw that my ruined manacles had risen from the rubble and even now hovered in the air. Heat radiated from them, magic melting and reforming the metal until they were whole again. They settled on the ground, and when I looked up, he was staring at me, silver eyes unreadable. “The next time I see you, those had better be back on or I’ll put four more in their place.” Without another word, he took my mother’s arm and helped her through the debris and out of sight.
False, black, painful hope.
I rested my forehead on my knees, trying to shove away the old hurts behind their stone walls.
“Your Highness?” It was Élise’s voice, quiet and tentative. I didn’t move—it seemed like more effort than I could manage.
“Tristan?” A hand touched my shoulder.
Part of me wanted to shrug it off, to tell Élise, all the half-bloods, and everyone else in this cursed city to deal with their own problems. Except that what I’d told my aunt had been true—there was no one but me who could credibly oppose my father. And not just my father, but Angoulême.