“Maybe, maybe not,” Chris replied. “If he attacked Courville, Tristan would likely intervene before Roland could take control of the city, and he’d be risking a direct confrontation with his elder brother, which he wouldn’t win.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I kept my doubts to myself.

“But by doing it this way, building his army in small attacks, the risk of Tristan leaving Trianon unprotected – especially with their father’s plans remaining unknown – are much less.”

“And once he has this army, then what?” My mind filled with the image of families driven to take up pitchforks and shovels, rusty swords, and pistols that hadn’t been fired in years, and then to attack their countrymen. Not because they wanted to, but because they had no choice.

“When he’s ready, we think he’ll have them march en masse on Courville,” Vincent replied. “Tristan would have to leave Trianon unprotected to save the other city from his brother’s army.”

“While Roland and Lessa backtrack to Trianon and take it while it’s undefended,” I said, not waiting for him to finish. “They have to know he won’t fall for such a strategy.”

“True.” Chris set the map aside. “So Tristan sees through their game and remains in Trianon. Roland’s army takes Courville. Not only is the death toll likely to be catastrophic, he’ll now have control over nearly half the Isle’s population, none of whom will hold Tristan in particularly high regard given he’s remained holed up behind castle walls the entire time.”

And none of them would care that he hadn’t had a choice. I exhaled softly. “Then Roland can march his army against Trianon, or even Trollus, at his pleasure. It won’t matter to him or Angoulême how many humans die, because keeping them alive has never been their plan. It was ours.” The porridge soured in my stomach. “How do we stop him?”

“By taking away his army, bit by bit, village by village,” Chris replied. “By forcing Roland to meet Tristan on a level playing field and making the battle between them alone. Watch.” He gestured at the faintly glowing miniature.

Two figures appeared in the model, tiny replicas of Vincent and Victoria. They were both standing on their hands, wobbling back and forth. Victoria’s figure toppled over, and I heard her grumble softly over my shoulder. Vincent smiled, and a dozen tiny figures bearing our faces appeared. “This,” he said, “is how it will go.”

Chapter 24

Cécile

“Stones and sky, but they’re cocky,” Victoria muttered, kneeling next to me in the snow.

Revigny sat between two mountains, a cluster of houses and one general store, with a population that was far outnumbered by the goats they raised on the grassy southern slopes. And by my reckoning, every one of them was locked behind the invisible wall encasing the village. Goats included.

Their troll captors relaxed in a pavilion that looked like it had been plucked from the glass gardens, only this version was an illusion with the sole purpose of blocking out the brilliant sun from overhead. Two of them sat on rough wooden chairs plucked from someone’s kitchen, while a third twirled about half-naked in the snow, hands raised up to the sun.