Page 17 of A Treachery of Swans

I fall asleep clutching the owl-face pendant. In my dreams, it burns against my palm, and a floor of black-and-white tiles stretches like a chessboard in front of me, golden blood streaked down the middle.

Something is coming, Daughter of the Blood,says a voice that rattles like a drowning man’s lungs.Something is coming.

I wake to the sound of sobbing.

For an instant, I’m afraid I’m still dreaming—buried by something heavy and stifling, my back slick with sweat. I scrabble around, panicking, until I finally manage to untangle myself from the lavish bedding of the Dauphine’s apartments and gulp night-chilled air.

The crying, however, does not stop. It comes from a distance,crawling through the hallways, reaching my chambers only as a quiet echo. Slowly the sound multiplies, until I can make out more raised voices, more hysteric sobs.

I climb from my bed and check the owl-face pendant before pulling a silk jacket from the chest to throw over my chemise. A red-wine dawn spills through the chamber’s windows, bathing me in violent shades as I rush toward the door. Foreboding fills my gut as I grip the handle and pull.

I do not get the chance to step out before Armand, the guard, is bearing down upon me, his mask jagged in the eerie light. “Mademoiselle, you can’t leave your chambers,” he says gruffly.

My heart leaps into my throat. Has my ruse been discovered?

“Why?” I demand, gathering as much queenly authority as I can muster while likely resembling a bedraggled, sleep-deprived rat.

“We are still assessing the situation. You will be told when it’s deemed safe.”

“Monsieur, please. I must—” I cut myself off as another wail echoes down the corridor. It seems to be coming from the entrance hall. I pause to listen, attempting to distinguish one panicked voice from another. A command is barked. A woman’s voice argues back. Then a third wail carries into the hallway.

“No! Bring him back!”

The Dauphin.

I step closer to the guard, nose-to-nose and glad once again for Marie’s superior height. “Whatisgoing on down there? Why is my betrothed weeping?”

I can’t see the man’s expression, and the frustration of it makes me want to dig my nails under his mask and peel it from his face. He seems to deliberate. I force myself to be still, even though I feel as if sparks are trapped in my chest.

Finally he says, “The King is dead.”

The King is dead.

My chest lurches. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. How is this possible? It was mere hours ago that I’d seen him alive, bearing furiously down upon the Dauphin.

“How did it happen?” My voice comes out too matter-of-fact, too callous for tactful Marie. I force a handful of fat tears into my eyes so I don’t looktooconspicuous.

The guard sounds haunted. “They found his body by the lakeside,” he says. “Halfway to the theater house.”

I frown. “What was he doing out there?”

“They say he went for a ride to clear his head. They found his guards dead, too. All bloodied.”

Nowthatgets my interest. “Bloodied?”

The guard shifts uncomfortably, realizing he has said too much. “This is a sensitive matter, mademoiselle, too violent for the ears of a lady. I’m sure the Dauphin would decide better what details you should know.”

I force a demure smile to my lips and let a few more tears fall. “Please, monsieur,” I say piteously. “I must know what is causing the Dauphin such distress.”

“It is… unspeakable.”

An ominous feeling slips along my bones. “Monsieur, you must tell me. Youmust.I’m your future queen.”

Beneath the ridges of the guard’s mask, his eyes squeeze shut. He weighs his options in harrowed, irritated silence. Finally he begins to speak again. “He was murdered by his own guard, mademoiselle.” His voice turns rough and halting, as though it’s snagging on his teeth. “One of the best musketeers in the regiment too, a favorite of the Dauphin’s. Prince Aimé took him off the streets, treated him like an equal. And this is how he repays him, the ungrateful bastard.”

My hair stands on end—this is beginning to sound too familiar. “Monsieur. What… what is his name?”

“I do not think you would know him, mademoiselle.”

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