Page 55

Under the Lake

Once, I’d wanted nothing more than to be exactly like my father.

I’d look in a mirror and imagine myself his reflection, his successor, a black cloak on my shoulders and a raven-feathered mask on my face.

Now when I look at him, all I see is a remnant of the past— my past. He may wear a mask, but that is only a distraction, like the flourish of a magician meant to conceal a paltry trick; the real lies are his charisma, his promises, the morsels of praise he doled out in crumbs to me, knowing I was starving.

He kept me busy begging at his feet, so I would not turn around and see a feast. So I would not realize it was all a mirage.

But I’ve had my fill now. I will not cower before him.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I take a shaky step back, as I pull Aimé behind me and curse under my breath.

I tell it to myself as Regnault advances upon us, his dagger raised, those tunnel-dark eyes trained on the Couronne du Roi.

I tell it to myself as I ball my fists, preparing to fight if I must.

I tell it to myself, but I am afraid.

At my back, Aimé presses something into my fingers. “Take it,” he whispers. I look over to see that he has picked the Couronne back up off the altar. His palm is wrapped around one of the crown’s sharp tines, and a rivulet of his blood crawls over its shining surface.

“It won’t work,” I whisper urgently. “I need his blood too.” I incline my chin at my advancing father, who has madness in his eyes now, his too-wide smile that of a wolf anticipating a meal.

“Oh, don’t worry, ma chérie ,” Aimé says with a wink, before a shudder runs through his body. “I’ll get it for you.”

I shake my head frantically. “Wait, Aimé, not here—”

But the Dauphin is already shifting, his body lengthening and joints cracking. The last thing he manages is an apologetic “I couldn’t hold it in much longer anyway,” before he has fully become the beast, stone skin and curling tusks and bloodshot, crazed eyes.

I barely manage to come to my senses in time to duck aside and crawl behind the altar. Ahead, Regnault freezes, reaching slowly for his own dagger, the one I know to be coated in Sorcier’s Bane poison.

The beast locks eyes with my father, and it roars, a hollow, deafening sound that fills the drowned temple. Then it charges.

Regnault moves with impossible speed. He ducks out of the beast’s reaching claws, rolls nimbly, and comes up on his feet.

The beast swipes, and Regnault crouches down, the blow whistling inches past his head.

I nearly call out to Aimé, nearly remind him to avoid the sorcier’s dagger, but I know Aimé has no control like this—if I call out, he might very well come for me.

So I press my palm over my mouth and watch in horror as Regnault slashes at the beast again and again, lithe and brutal, forcing the beast to back up until its hind limbs hit one of the standing columns.

Finding itself cornered, it rears back, lashing out with both claws, and this time Regnault is not fast enough—the beast pins him to the marble, one of its claws digging into Regnault’s shoulder, dripping shimmering blood as it pulls the paw back again for another strike.

I pump my fist in the air. Success. I look around, trying to decide on the best approach to get to the blood without being caught in—

Suddenly the beast screams in agony. My head snaps toward the sound, just in time to see Regnault pull his dagger out of the beast’s foreleg. Blood spurts from the wound, and the beast falls back, groaning, shaking its head.

“No!” I shout. I tighten my fist around the Couronne. I have to get to them—I have to help before Aimé is turned back; I have to…

That’s when I look down once more at the temple floor and realize it is checkered. Black and white, just like in my dreams. I remember her words to me in the dungeons: Your time is coming, Daughter of the Blood. Claim your power.

But I have no magic—no power.

And yet… what was it that Regnault had said?

There is power in legacy.

Realization seizes me. I turn to the altar and slam the Couronne down in the very center, grabbing a large, jagged piece of stone as I go, gripping it with all my force until I feel it break my skin, until it presses deeper and deeper and I feel blood burst from my palm.

Pain surges up my arm, but I do not care.

I wipe my bleeding hand on the Couronne and bring the rock down over it.

Once, twice. Not even a dent. A third time.

Still nothing. Sweat drips into my eyes, and my arm begins to ache, but still I have hardly made a mark.

I curse. It isn’t breaking. Why isn’t it breaking? I raise the rock again, and—

“Odile, wait!” Regnault has gotten to his feet, his dagger still drawn, a look of crazed command in his eyes. Behind him, Aimé lies limp, human once more, his clothing in tatters. “Wait,” Regnault repeats. “Please, listen to me.”

It’s enough to stay my hand. Even now, I listen to him. Even now, he has me chained.

“You know that won’t work,” Regnault says, and I can tell from the restrained way he speaks that he is trying to keep his voice from shaking with fury.

“You need my blood to destroy it. It was forged with the power in my bloodline, a bloodline you do not carry. Without me, you can do nothing. You… you will be nothing. You will be alone once more, as you were before I found you.”

“Before you found me,” I say quietly, “I had my brother. And you tried to make me hate him.”

He scoffs. “The red-blooded oaf? Please, Odile, he’s not worth this. Lower the stone. You and I have far more in common than you ever had with him.”

“Is that why you isolated me?” I demand. “Why you made sure I had no one but you? You turned me into a tool, into a pet. I depended on you for everything. I never questioned you, not once.”

“I was guiding you!” The words come out in a violent growl.

He presses the mask to his face, runs a hand through his hair.

“I was guiding you,” he repeats again, lowering his voice.

“So that you would have what it takes. So that you could do what was needed to claim the Couronne, to claim the throne, as the Golden-Blooded Girl should have always done. I did this all for you. I made you, and you know it. So lower the stone, little owl. I will forgive you, and we will rule together. I will forgive you, because I always do, no matter how much you disappoint me.”

I swallow thickly. “Why?” I whisper, letting my grip on the stone waver. “After all I’ve done, why do you still want me back?”

“My dear little owl.” Regnault opens his arms, his smile benevolent. “I will always want you back. I am your father, after all.”

I let my hand fall to my side, tears gathering in my eyes. “If you are telling the truth,” I whisper, “then swear one thing to me. Swear that you will never replace me—that I will always be your heir.”

“Of course,” he says gently. “Of course you will be.”

Then he freezes. His smile drops as he realizes his mistake.

I grin triumphantly. “Thank you for confirming,” I say, dropping my pitiful act. “If I recall correctly, you said something about heirs carrying power?”

His eyes widen in horror. “Wait—” he cries, but I don’t hesitate.

I bring the stone down on the Couronne du Roi.

This time it’s like striking a pane of glass. The crown shatters into a thousand tiny, glittering fragments, a bloom of golden light exploding from within. A voice fills the temple, archaic and momentous and as familiar as drowning.

Well done, little owl, little champion, Morgane crows. I am free at last.

For a moment the tiny shards of gold all hover around me, suspended, before the light vanishes again and they all fall to the ground, the sound soft and high like wind chimes.

I whirl, seeking out Morgane, but the spirit is nowhere to be seen. Columns loom, solemn and imposing, overhead, the lake’s undulating waters stretching out on either side. In the distance, a school of tiny fish picks at pondweed on the lake bed. Everything is oddly peaceful.

Then Regnault shoves past me, crashing to his knees at the base of the altar. “No!” he cries, reaching down, attempting to sweep up the shards of the Couronne as though he might reassemble it. “No, no, no!”

“Papa…” I whisper, pained.

Before I can say anything more, the temple begins to shake.

The checkered floor beneath my feet bucks and fissures. I scream as one of the columns behind me topples, water gushing in around it.

“Papa, we have to go!” I scream, grabbing my father’s shoulder, but he only slaps my hand away. When he looks up at me, there is nothing in his eyes but potent, condemning hatred.

“You did this,” he seethes, spittle flying from his mouth. “Traitor.”

My heart shatters. Tears prick my eyes, but I know I can’t wait a moment longer. I race past Regnault and toward Aimé, hauling him from the ground. Ahead, Regnault’s tunnel has disappeared.

“We’re going to have to swim!” I say, and Aimé nods, then pulls me against himself as what little remains of the temple’s roof caves in, sending in another gush of water.

The floor of the temple begins to flood, water racing across the checkered stone and breaking upon the altar like an ocean wave.

Cold water surrounds my boots, my ankles.

“Let’s go now!” I take Aimé’s hand, ready to jump out of the temple and into the lake surrounding us when the water overhead begins to churn.

It’s like the heavens open up. The oppressive darkness of the lake is pushed apart as though by a pair of invisible hands, revealing a bright azure sky, thin sugar-spun clouds, and a white-winged girl flying toward us, haloed by glorious sunlight.

“Marie!” I shout in relief. Marie swoops toward us, and I push Aimé toward her as she reaches out.

“Take him first!” I say, and Marie doesn’t argue, heaving the Dauphin up in her arms. She brings her wings down in a powerful stroke, lifting them both away from the flooding temple, and I turn, seeking out Regnault.

Conflict roils within me. I know I should leave him behind, but there is a piece of me that still feels obligated toward him for taking me in, for raising me. He’s still by the altar, and I run toward him once more.

“Papa! Come, please. I know you’re angry, but you’ll die if you stay here. Please, we can—”

I break off when I see the dagger in Regnault’s hand.

He gets to his feet slowly, raising the weapon, and advances on me.

His mask is gone. For the first time in my life, I see Regnault without the ornate, feathered accessory that he has always worn.

I had once wondered if he was hiding a scar behind it, some mark of his mysterious past. But behind it there are only signs of age: a wrinkled brow and crow’s feet and bruised shadows under his eyes oozing desolate, irrational fury.

I stumble back, nearly falling when another tremor shakes the temple; another column falls and shatters against the ground. The water is nearly to my knees now—it sloshes as I back away, Regnault coming ever nearer, one hand reaching for me, the other holding aloft the knife.

Suddenly my heel strikes a piece of detritus, and I lose my balance. Regnault leaps at me, the dagger arcing downward, just as a strong pair of arms seizes me from behind, lifting me from the water and out of the dagger’s reach.

“Get away from her!” Marie d’Odette commands.

“No!” shrieks Regnault, but Marie grips me to her chest, one hand under my knees, the other clutching at my shoulders.

She grunts with effort, her wings pumping wildly.

Behind us, one final tremor runs through the temple.

Water cascades in around us with violent, triumphant force as the lake reclaims the structure that has so long lain dormant in its depths.

I know Regnault cannot escape in time, and perhaps I should turn back, take one last look at him, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

I simply bury my face in Marie’s collarbone and let her bring me back to safety.

Marie alights on the shore of Lac des Cygnes with difficulty, panting as she places me back on the muddy shore. I try to stand, but my knees crumple beneath me. Before I can hit the sand, another pair of hands catches me, this time thick and calloused.

“You’re safe,” Damien whispers, and grips me tightly. I lean against him, grateful—mainly for the warmth, because I am soaked and freezing—then pat him awkwardly on the back.

“I am,” I say disbelievingly before pulling away. “Mothers, we did it.” My chest burns—I’m somewhere halfway between laughing and crying. “The Couronne is destroyed. Morgane… Morgane is free. Magic should be back.”

“Magic is back.” Aimé walks up beside Damien, and I notice he’s wearing the circlet I gave him. His hand is pressed to the shallow wound near his shoulder where Regnault had stabbed him, and he pulls it away briefly, showing me his palm. “Look.”

His hand is smeared in blood. Red blood. A mundane, undeniable crimson, as bright as ripe cherries or mid-autumn leaves or rubies polished to a shine.

“The curse is broken,” I breathe, and Aimé nods, grinning with tired relief.

I move my attention to the lakeside, where the guardsmen are busy gathering their dead and hacking at the dented corpses of the golden tarasques. Aimé follows my gaze to the lifeless monsters. “Apparently they stopped moving right before we arrived.”

I make a contemplative noise. “Must have lost their magic when the Couronne was broken.”

“And what of Regnault?” Aimé asks carefully. “Did you leave him behind?”

“I did not want to,” I admit, swallowing tightly.

“I tried to save him. But he… preferred to drown.” I rub my face, then chuckle wryly.

“He even tried to stab me as a parting gift. Marie, ever my gallant defender, pulled me away before I could accept.” I turn back to Marie, grinning.

“Frankly, princess, I’m surprised you’re not yet tired of rescuing m—”

I break off.

The Swan Princess is kneeling in the sand, her eyes unfocused, her smile not a smile at all but a wavering, pained grimace.

My stomach drops. “Marie?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispers hoarsely.

Then she crumples to the ground.

From between her shoulder blades, just to the left of her spine, protrudes Regnault’s dagger.