He shoved me back into the office, the door slamming shut, locked in place with magic. “Father, wait,” I screamed, but it was to no avail. I knew what that concussion had been: Roland. Too late I remembered Cécile’s repeated words of Angoulême’s strategy; too late I understood why they planned to go first after my father, who had the might of Trollus at his disposal, rather than me. Because the Duke had seen what I had not: my father would defend my life to the bitter end, whereas I’d stand back and watch him die. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to hear more, needed to understand why he’d done what he’d done.

Picking up a chair, I slammed it against the door, wood splintering and breaking, but the magic holding strong. “Help! Someone open the door.”

Nothing.

I spun in a circle, desperate for a way out. But I knew this room well, and there were no windows. No doors. The walls were solid stone and without magic, I wasn’t strong enough to break through them. I looked up. The ceiling was polished wood, and that, that I could break.

Ignoring the pain in my body, I snatched up a piece of the broken chair. Leaping onto the desk, I slammed it against the panels until one of them broke, then I used it as a lever to pull free enough boards for me to fit through. Splinters catching and tearing at my clothes, I climbed into the narrow space, wriggling on my belly until I was certain the hallway was beneath me.

Breaking through, I dropped into the ground and started running. “The King?” I shouted at the first troll I came across. “Which way did he go?”

The troll stared at me in astonishment, and I grabbed his shirt, slamming him against the wall. “Which way?”

He pointed, and I took off in that direction.

The halls of the palace were a familiar maze, and I soon guessed his path. Even deprived of my own, I could still feel the weight of his magic, and I pursued it, catching sight of him right as he slammed open the doors to the gardens. “Father!”

He turned at my voice. “Go back.”

Instead I pressed forward, grabbing hold of the front of his coat. “Roland’s come to kill you.”

His eyes bored into mine, then he looked away. “What does it matter? Without magic, they won’t follow you. All that I’ve done…” He shook his head. “It was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t.” I tried and failed to pull him back into the hallway. “If you would just listen.”

Then he stiffened, eyes going wide with shock. Fear. Pain. “Tristan–” he gasped, then he collapsed to the floor at my feet.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Cécile