Page 95 of A Treachery of Swans

“What is it?” Aimé asks worriedly.

“The dagger. The one with Regnault’s blood. I must have…” In that moment I spot the dagger lying at the very edge of the temple,where the tunnel mouth ends. I rush toward it, dread filling me. “Please, Morgane,please—”

But before I can reach the dagger, a horrifyingly familiar, black-cloaked figure emerges from the tunnel. He steps out of it casually, nothing like our uncontrolled plummet downward, as if he is merely walking into a sitting room. He is no longer bleeding—his sleeve and pant leg are crusted over with golden blood.

My pulse begins to pound. I bite my lip, praying at least that the dagger by his feet goes unnoticed, but of course, of course, because the Mothers musthateme, his attention falls immediately upon it.

Aimé grabs me before I can lunge forward. I’m forced to stop, to watch helplessly as Regnault crouches by the weapon and picks it up. He turns it over with a languid motion, then sticks it into his belt, his eyes taunting and vicious as he regards me.

“How kind of you, my darling daughter, to bring my sacrifice all the way to the altar.”

SCENE XXXVIIThe Temple

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—mypast. 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-darkeyes 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 alreadyshifting,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 itshind 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, Aimélies limp, human once more, his clothing in tatters. “Wait,” Regnault repeats. “Please, listen to me.”

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