Page 93 of A Treachery of Swans

I will bring magic back.

Or I will die trying.

SCENE XXXVThe Lake

Dawn

I drag Aimé-Victor Augier through the dense woodland, ignoring his feeble struggling and muffled cries for help.

“No one is going to come for you, princeling,” I snarl at him, slackening my grip on his collar as he stumbles over a log. “They’re all fast,fastasleep.”

“Please,” he whispers brokenly, and I refuse to look him in the face, to see the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Please don’t do this. After everything… I trusted you. We all did.”

The last words hit me like a fist in the gut, and I flinch. Aimé notices and gives a brittle, agonized laugh. “So there is some humanity still left in you. Please, Odile, you—”

“Shut up!” I snarl, unable to take his sniveling anymore. With all my force, I shove him through the tree line.

Aimé crashes to his knees on the uneven, muddy earth of the lakeside, right at the feet of a black-cloaked figure in a feathered mask.

“You delivered on your promise,” Regnault says delightedly.

Aimé drags in a ragged breath as he recognizes the sorcier. He tries desperately to get to his feet, an act made difficult by the rope binding his wrists securely behind his back. I sneer as I watch him struggle. Ahead, a cold wind sends the lake waters rippling, harsh and accusatory. The fog is thin today, eddying around the decaying dock and blurring out the grimy orange dawn smeared overhead. It makes Regnault, with the Couronne du Roi gleaming in his hair, look all the more menacing, all the more mythological, as he bears down on the Dauphin.

I have to force my eyes away from the crown. “I hope this makes up for my mistakes,” I say to my father.

Regnault glances at me, his eyes lightless. “Almost,” he says, and then cocks his head at Aimé, birdlike and malevolent. Aimé tries to move away, but he only loses his balance and falls onto his back, meeting the mud with a squelch.

“Little tarasque,” Regnault croons at him. “Fooled into capture, just like the creature you carry on your banners.” He reaches down and seizes Aimé’s jaw. “How I will enjoy watching you bleed out at my feet.”

“Careful,” I caution Regnault as Aimé begins to tremble. “Those ropes will not hold if he turns into the beast again.”

Regnault gives me a knowing look and pulls a dagger from his belt. “You think I did not come prepared?” he asks, letting me see the sticky yellow substance coating the blade—more of the Sorcier’s Bane potion, I realize, like the one the Step-Queen stabbed me with. With asnick,he sheathes it once more. “I must wonder—how did you manage to capture this one?” He points his chin at Aimé. There’s true suspicion in the question, barely veiled. “Was he alone?”

“He was with his guard and intended. I drugged them.” I bare my teeth. “Still had some of those herbs I tried to use on you and failed.”

“Impressive,” he says, but his eyes are flinty, cutting into me and through me. “I have one more mission for you to prove your loyalty.”

“And what is that?” I demand, holding his gaze.

“Once we are in the temple, you will be the one to kill the Dauphin.”

Aimé whimpers miserably. “No. You can’t. Odile, please, don’t do this.”

I give him a pitying look before turning back to Regnault. My heart aches, but I say the words without hesitation. “Whatever you ask of me, Papa.”

Regnault’s gaze softens, and I feel truly wretched. He does love me, I realize. It is a twisted love, a self-serving love, perhaps the only way he knows how to give love at all. But it islove.And some part of me still craves it, despite everything.

“I am glad you came to your senses, little owl,” Regnault says sincerely. “Come, it’s time.” He looks toward the lake before reaching down and seizing Aimé by the arm. The Dauphin cries out as Regnault hauls him to his feet, and my heart clenches.

No,I tell myself.Don’t pity him. You’re the villain, this one last time.

I follow Regnault onto the dock, the brittle wood bobbing under our feet and sending frantic ripples across the lake. He stops at the very end and releases Aimé’s arm, then extends his hand over the lake. He traces spell-thread after spell-thread, his face set hard in concentration. I watch in morbid fascination as he spins a thick cobweb of magic.

Finally he lowers his hand.

For an instant nothing happens. Aimé turns wide, anxious eyes to me, and I throw him a quick wink, trying to appear confident.

Then the lakeshrieks.

---