“In what way?”
“You’re Ambrose Madigan’s daughter. Emrys Madigan’s niece. The blood of the mountains runs through you.” He paused, but his dark eyes measured mine. “You’re a strong contender for the sovereign claim of Seren.”
I snorted. “And so are you and Lennox. And so is Olivette.”
“My mother doesn’t see Olivette as a threat.”
“Are you certain, Phelan? Perhaps you should still warn Nura.”
He pressed his lips together but nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I should warn them both. But Mr. Wolfe is devoted to my mother. She gave him favor and protection in the era before the curse and I don’t see him turning against her now. I have no doubt he will support my mother’s claim to sovereignty.”
“And do you?” I countered. “Do you support your mother’s claim?”
“No.”
This is the moment, I thought. The moment I told him what I hoped for. Who I wanted to see bring life back to these mountains.
There was a knock on the door.
Phelan stiffened. He eased my hair forward, so that it flowed over my shoulders, concealing the auburn strands as well as the scars in my neck. Reluctantly, he went to answer the door.
It was the countess. She stood on the threshold, holding a platter of roasted hen.
“What is it, Mother?” he asked, sounding just as surprised as I felt.
Lady Raven glanced at me, her eyes as cold as the snow drifting beyond the window. “I hope you have recovered from last night, Anna.”
“You’re interrupting her rest, Mother.”
“She has been resting for hours, and in case you forgot, Phelan . . . all of us suffered a hard night,” Lady Raven stated. “I would like to speak to Anna alone.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’s all right, Phelan,” I said.
He didn’t want to leave me alone with his mother. I read the lines in his brow, the set of his jaw. I noticed how his hands clenched and released as he strode past the countess, out into the shadows of the corridor.
As I felt the draft of his leaving, I wondered if she had discovered my deceit. If she knew who I was beneath my guise.
Perhaps the countess had come to kill me.
Lady Raven kicked the door shut. She crossed the chamber to set the platter of hen down on the table.
“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, lady,” I said.
“Oh, this is not for you,” she replied. “It is for the troll.”
I blinked. “The one called Mazarine?”
“Yes. Brin of Stonefall.”
I hadn’t seen Mazarine since the day we’d arrived. She had kept to herself in her chambers. I often forgot about her presence.
“The duke tried to poison me early this morning,” the countess said, brusque.
“He did?”
“Yes. And so the time has come for me to finally rid myself of him.”
“Are you certain it was the duke?”
“He is no duke,” she all but snarled. “He is a master of coin, and his greed knows no bounds. It took me nearly eighty years to locate him after the curse. That was the extent of his desire to never be found.”
“How were you able to find him, lady?”
“My sons,” she replied, glancing at me. “The duke, who was close friends with my late husband, treated my boys as his own when they were born. When his wife died and he remained childless, he began to lavish great gifts upon us. Particularly Phelan, who needed intensive schooling to amount to anything.”
I held my tongue, although I burned to give a retort. I thought of Phelan’s self-deprecation on the first new moon we had fought together. How he believed himself unworthy of his title and magic, even though he had striven twice as hard as me to earn the illumination.
“Three years ago,” she continued, oblivious to my ire, “the duke approached me about naming Phelan as his heir, the future Duke of Bardyllis. And I do not know why, but it roused my suspicions. It took me another two years to fully understand that this was not Lord Deryn but my old companion from the mountain, and that he must also know where Brin of Stonefall was hiding herself, for as the spymistress of Seren she once wielded the ancient and hazardous magic of guises.”
Hold your act. I heard Phelan’s voice in my memory. Hold your act. . . .
But how close the countess was to uncovering me. I felt as if I walked on glass.
“So you desire to kill the duke for vengeance, because he evaded and deceived you for so long?” I asked.
“I desire to kill him because he is going to oppose the curse breaking,” she said. “He does not want to see the Seren court reinstated. He does not want to see the new moon nightmares come to an end. It is too lucrative for him, this business of taxing dreams.”
Her words sank into me slowly, like a long knife, and for a moment I wavered, overcome with doubt. The duke said he would support me as well as Phelan. And yet the countess believed he would oppose anyone claiming the sovereignty.
I felt her gaze, an icy assessment of my demeanor, and I rallied, focusing on her.
“So you want to bribe Mazarine with a chicken?”
The countess smiled, as if I were some adorable, dense creature. “No, child. The hen is poisoned. And once Mazarine falls, her magic crumbles. The master of coin will lose his guise as duke, and then he will have nothing. No title, no prowess, no fortune. He will have no choice but to support my plans to end this curse.”
“Oh,” I said. “A brilliant move, Countess.”
“Indeed. Now, deliver the chicken to Mazarine. But do not rush away. Delay and talk to her, to ensure she begins to eat it. Trolls are vain creatures, and they like stories and shrewd company. You will do fine, Anna.” Lady Raven was obviously scared of Mazarine. And she was sending me in her stead.
“I’m not in danger from this troll, am I, lady?”
The countess opened the door and looked at me. Another one of her pitying expressions. “No, my dear. So long as you give her the hen.” She took a step over the threshold but then paused.
I braced myself, my hand eager to find my dagger, hidden in my boot.
“Oh, and Anna?” she added, just before she departed. “Last night, you hesitated, and the nightmare got the best of you. See that you don’t let it happen again.”
40
Ten minutes later, I knocked on Mazarine’s door with a headache and a chicken. She had chosen a room in the northern wing of the fortress, where the colder, darker chambers sat with minimal sunshine and an interior view of the mountains.
“Who knocks?” she growled through the iron-latticed wood.
“It’s Anna Neven,” I replied, balancing the platter of hen.
I heard her footsteps as she approached the door. The multiple locks turning. And then I stood face-to-face with her, and a frightening smile lit her face. Her yellow teeth flashed like amber.
“Anna,” she crooned. “It has been a while. Do come in.”
I entered, struck at once by the abundance of candlelight and the heavy scent of moss and damp stone that filled her chamber. Her windows were open, and snow was swirling into the room. The temperature was frigid.
“Careful,” she warned. “The floor is slick in some places. And mortal bones are quick to fracture.”