Page 94 of A Treachery of Swans

It’s a sound like claws drawn over stone, like the scrape of a whetstone over a sword. The formerly placid black waters of Lac desCygnes begin to bubble and churn, sloshing and rising up in great waves. On the far bank, the flock of swans startles and takes to the air one by one, fleeing the awakening lake.

At the very end of the dock, the water begins to swirl. It whirls and whirls until there is a narrow, dark tunnel leading from the dock under the water’s surface, plunging into the lake’s belly. Uneasiness fills me. The tunnel is too steep to walk down, the walls formed of restless, swirling water—we will have to jump in and slide through it. And all it would take is for Regnault to cast another spell for those walls to close in again, drowning us all.

So I can’t give him the chance.

“Now!” I shout, unsheathing a dagger from my sleeve.

A figure leaps from the trees, nacreous wings spreading with such force that they rattle the treetops. Diving like an arrow, Marie slams into Regnault, sending him toppling. As soon as she does, I run to Aimé and slash his bonds before turning back to Regnault and Marie. Regnault loses his balance, his back smashing into the dock—the Couronne slips off his head and falls onto the wood with a metallicclang.Regnault scrabbles for it, but Marie is faster. She seizes the crown and tosses it to Aimé—just as a hulking golden shape slams into her, sending them both crashing into the bulrushes that surround the dock.

“Marie!” I scream as one of the metal tarasques from the chapel pins her under the water. Regnault scoffs, wiping a trickle of golden blood from his nose. “Did you really think I would come to greet you without reinforcements?” he asks.

“Did you thinkwewouldn’t?” I reply, seething.

That’s when the first gunshot rings out.

Regnault stumbles, snarling in pain, as the shot nicks his arm. I seize the moment to spring forward, a knife at the ready. Before he can recover, I run it firmly across his leg, golden bloodgushing across the blade. Nausea fills me at the sight, but I don’t have time to feel guilty as another gunshot ricochets from the shell of the tarasque, the sound echoing over the lake. It does little damage, but it’s enough to distract the creature and allow Marie to come up for air, beating her wings desperately against the water.

“Go!” she shouts at Aimé and me.

“Guards, protect Marie!” Aimé commands. At his cry, the guardsmen step out from the tree line, muskets raised and swords drawn, Damien at their head. The tarasque whirls upon them, uttering a shrill cry; there comes an answering screech from nearby, and the second tarasque charges out, barreling into the guardsmen.

Chaos breaks out. I want to run to Marie, to protect her, but a hand seizes me from behind. I turn to meet Aimé’s eyes. He shakes his head minutely.

“We have to go.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make it any less difficult to turn my back—to leave behind my brother and my lover and my injured father.

But I have to do this.

Aimé takes one of my hands in his, the other clutching the Couronne to his chest. Together we jump into Lac des Cygnes.

SCENE XXXVIUnder the Lake

The way to the temple is long and cold. Aimé and I plunge into darkness in a dizzying spiral, water soaking through the backs of our clothing. The walls ripple around us, the silver bellies of fish flashing in the gloom. What little light there is begins to wane the farther we get into the depths.

After what seems like an eternity of tight-throated panic, the tunnel spits us out onto a hard, flat floor of slippery stone. I lose my grip on Aimé, catching myself on my hands and knees. Aimé is less lucky, and he lands on his side with a grunt. He lies there wearing a martyred expression, his eyes unfocused.

It takes a moment for my head to stop spinning. When it does, I stumble over to the Dauphin and extend my hand to help him up.

“Are you all right?” I say worriedly, referring both to our fall and to my performance earlier. I had not been kind to him, but that was precisely what he’d asked of me.Do what you must to make it convincing,he’d told me as I tied his wrists together before we entered the forest.

He seems to understand. “Quite all right.” He pats me on the arm reassuringly. “Say, mademoiselle, have you ever considered a career in acting?”

I give him a shove, rolling my eyes, then turn to survey our surroundings. We are standing at the edge of the drowned temple, a ruin of pale stone tangled in pondweed and surrounded by columns, some crumbled, some still standing upright, as though the structure simply slipped into Lac des Cygnes’s waters. The lake’s surface is far above. And yet somehow the temple remains dry, water surrounding it but seeming to shy away. The air smells ancient, of must and decomposing reeds and things long drowned.

In the very middle of the temple stands a grand altar. Once upon a time, it seems to have borne intricate carvings on it, but most of them have been eaten away by water and time. Still, I can make out the three Mothers depicted on one side, their arms intertwined.

I walk up cautiously, Aimé trailing behind me. Across the altar spans a starburst of fissures, as though it was struck by something heavy.

“Do you think this is where Morgane appeared?” Aimé asks, tracing one of the cracks.

“It seems so,” I say, holding out my hand for the Couronne. Aimé passes it to me, his jaw tight with nerves as he watches me place it in the very center of the altar.

“Morgane, let this work,” I murmur, reaching to my belt for the dagger with Regnault’s blood on it.

My fingers close around empty air.

“No.” My heart drops into my stomach. “No, no.” I pat my pockets, looking around frantically. Nothing.

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