Page 83 of A Treachery of Swans

Then he shoves me across the room with impossible force.

My back slams into the wall, then my head, leaving me windedand gasping. Blood trickles from my wrist where his nails broke skin. I can taste more of it welling on my tongue.

Regnault stalks up to me. My vision blurs; I can’t help the pathetic whimper that escapes me. I am more terrified than I was with the Step-Queen or with the beast.

“Oh,ma fille.” Regnault crouches before me. Brushes his fingers tenderly across my cheek, swipes at the blood pooling under my lip. I shudder, but he pays no heed. “I do not wish to hurt you. But you know I must punish you somehow for your betrayal.”

“My betrayal?” I whisper, spitting up a glob of blood. “You lied to me my whole life. You were never going to free magic, were you,Bartrand? You were only going to claim it all for yourself.”

His eyes widen a fraction, but he masters himself quickly. “Is this discovery the reason for your little rebellion?” he demands. “You don’t understand; you could never understand. Idowant to free magic. I want to free it from the control of those old gods, free us from having to obey their caprices and whims. Once I have trapped all three Mothers, I will be able to turn Auréal into an unstoppable force. We could take the continent, take the world.”

I waver, my head spinning. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me tell you a story.” He sits back on his heels. “About a young, ambitious sorcier, advisor to a young, ambitious king. A sorcier who had faith in his craft and in his patron, Morgane. Who turned to her when a blight killed most of the kingdom’s crops, begging her for the power to turn stone to gold to help his people out of poverty. Who was refused. ‘That is too much,’ said Morgane. ‘So much change would upset nature’s balance.’ For centuries, she had granted sorciers the power to create paltry trinkets, buttons that could become firearms or necklaces that altered the wearer’s appearance. Those, Morgane said, were small magics, temporary, affecting only a few. But to save a kingdom—herkingdom, thekingdom she claimed to protect? She couldn’t bend the rules for that.” He scoffs.

“The King and I were horrified,” he continues. “We did not feel Morgane deserved her power anymore—none of the Good Mothers did. So we hatched a plan to claim their power for our own. For the sake of the kingdom.”

I stare up at Regnault, whose eyes are far away, two hundred years into the past. A throb runs through my head from where it hit the wall. Blood trickles down my neck. I slump back against the wall, gathering my strength, listening in confusion as my father unveils his secrets.

“I began by creating the Couronne,” he says. “I stole the Golden-Blooded Girl’s collar from the monastery where it had been hidden for centuries. I set about altering it, increasing its power so that it could hold even the most powerful creature of magic. To complete the spell and bind Morgane, I needed blood. But not just any blood. There is power, you see, in legacy. And bloodlines are one of the truest legacies there is. King Ludovic and I went together to the old shrine in the center of the lake, and together we spilled our blood: mine, golden, from the ancient Roux sorciers. And Ludovic’s, royal, older even than mine, old as Auréal itself. Together we summoned Morgane. We tricked her, and we trapped her.

“When she realized what was happening, she lashed out with her powers, trying to punish us. She cursed me, stealing my magic, tearing my own birthright from my blood. The temple crumbled—I was thrown into the water. I came up on the side of the city, barely alive. I wandered the streets of Verroux for months after, pathetic and half mad. I could not remember how I had gotten there—I did not remember my own name. Years passed before the first trickles of memory returned to me, and more years before I began to be able to use magic again.”

“King Ludovic was cursed too, wasn’t he?” I realize. “But hiscurse was different—it turned him into a beast. And he passed it on to King Honoré, and Honoré in turn to Aimé.”

Regnault gives me a look midway between resentment and pride. “You were always too clever, weren’t you? Impatient, reckless, but clever when forced to be.” There’s that gleam of insanity again, sparking in his eyes and then vanishing. “In truth, even I did not know of his curse. I had my suspicions, but they were only that. I did not dare return to the court after I regained my memories—by then Ludovic was a blubbering madman, calling himself the Spider King and blaming everyone but himself for his misery.”

We stare at one another in silent understanding, the brunt of the past and its mistakes coming to rest between us. Then Regnault crosses his arms and straightens so he towers over me: a nightmarish figure, all angles and too-long limbs. His eyes are dark hollows—his teeth gleam white and ravenous.

“Surely you see now. You see why I must finish what I started. I made a mistake in reinforcing the Couronne with two bloodlines. I split its loyalty in two. I cannot access its full power. But I can break that bond by killing the last Augier heir at the place the Couronne was forged.”

“But Aimé is not the last of his line. There’s Pierre, Anne’s son.”

“Only true heirs carry the power. Pierre would have had to be named heir to the crown by Honoré in order to be a threat. As it stands, the boy is hardly better than a bastard. He is of no consequence.”

My stomach sinks. There is truly nothing standing in his way anymore. “So you intend to capture all three Mothers.”

“Yes.”

“And in doing so, you will claim all magic for yourself.”

He inclines his head. “The world will be mine to bend. Flowers will bloom, and snow will fall whenever I will it. I will be a god.”

“That’s impossible, and you know it.” I struggle to my feet,gesturing at his head. “Listen, Papa. That crown—I think it’s affecting you. It drove the Spider King mad. It’s starting to do the same to you.”

Regnault’s expression darkens, but I press on, desperate. “Take it off, please. Take it off; maybe you can—”

His laugh is like the gnashing of teeth, like the crushing of bone. “Your concern is appreciated, Odile, but unnecessary. I’m no Ludovic, magicless and weak-willed. I can control it.”

“And what about me?” I whisper. “Where am I in this grand plan of yours?”

“You?” He looks at me pityingly. “You needn’t be afraid. I will always have use for you.” He takes my face with one hand large enough to encompass my jaw, his nails pressing into my cheeks. “You are my daughter, Odile, as if you were my own blood. As long as you apologize and swear your loyalty to me, I will forget this little incident. What do you say, little owl?”

There was a time, perhaps, when I would have done anything he wished, because his promises were so much greater than his flaws. But now I can see beyond them. Beyond the affection he doles out in drops—just enough to make me crave more, but never enough to satisfy.

I think of the tarasque, faithfully following the Golden-Blooded Girl to the town square. I think of collars. And I think perhaps, perhaps, being alone is better than being chained. Than being led to my own end.

I look up at him, forcing tears into my eyes, feigning contrition. “I’m sorry, Papa,” I say. Then I stumble forward and hug him tight. In the same motion, I pull out Buttons. Turn it over three times.

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