“I’ve been looking for Anushka,” I said abruptly.

The King nodded. “And tell me, Cécile, in what manner has your search differed from that of the thousands of men and women who have sought her over the past five centuries? Do you think we’ve not hunted down every rumor, searched every face, infiltrated even the most exclusive of circles? Do you think we haven’t searched out birth records or found someone who could account for the childhood years of every woman with a hazy past?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

“You are unique, girl, and so should be your search,” he said softly.

He meant magic. The trolls had likely never sent a witch after her before; and if they had, there was no way she was as committed as me.

“I don’t know how,” I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from my voice. “And no one will teach me.” I had left all the grimoires in Trollus, and the handful of spells I could remember were useless in my search. I knew more than I had before, but that wasn’t saying much.

The King reached into his coat, and my heart skipped as I recognized the cover of the book he removed: it was Anushka’s grimoire. He held the book through the barrier, and I reached for it eagerly, but before I could grab it, he pulled it back. “First I want your word.”

A small smile made its way onto my face. “Afraid I’ll use her magic against you?”

He waved the bloody handkerchief back and forth. “I believe you lack one of the requisite ingredients. No, before I give you this nasty bit of work, I want your word that you will use it to hunt down Anushka. That you will stop at nothing to find her and bring her to me here.”

“Cécile, don’t!” Chris shouted. “If you promise him something, it will be binding.”

“I’m not promising you anything until I see Tristan,” I said.

“You’ll see him when you make progress.”

“I’ll stop searching this moment unless you let me see him,” I said, raising my chin in defiance. This might be my only chance, and I wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

“I hoped you would be reasonable,” the King said with a sigh. “But very well. Bring him!” he shouted back into the tunnel. Moments later, I could hear boots treading on stone, but also the sound of something heavy being dragged.

Chris gripped my arm. “Be strong. This isn’t going to be easy.”

As if I didn’t know. For months I’d felt Tristan’s agony as he was subjected to punishment at his father’s order. Had watched the silver marks on my knuckles tarnish as his strength was sapped in ways my mind too easily imagined. But none of it prepared me for the sight of him being dragged barefoot and shirtless between armed guards, who flung him at his father’s feet.

A sob tore from my lips as my eyes took in his gaunt frame, filthy and covered with dried blood. Three sets of manacles encircled his arms, manacles designed to hold in place iron spikes skewered through flesh and bone. Fresh blood oozed around the metal, falling in crimson droplets to soak the sand beneath him. The King reached down and pulled the hood off his head. Tristan remained unmoving, slumped against the barrier. A breeze rose off the sea, gusting by me to tug at his grime-caked hair.