Crimson Bound
Page 19
Erec laughed and went to retrieve their knives. “For that, you win a dance,” he said when he returned, holding out a hand.
Rachelle rolled her eyes, but she remembered the easy happiness when they had danced the other night, and she let him draw her out among the dancing couples. At first all she could do was watch him and watch the other women in the dance, trying to keep pace and not stumble. It was a statelier, more mannered dance than he had dragged her through in the courtyard. Instead of endless twirls, he clasped only one of her hands as they moved in a pattern of step, skip-skip, bow; step, skip-skip, turn. But even one-handed, Erec could steer her, and bloodbound grace made up the rest. In a few minutes, she could move through the steps without thinking.
“Your charge seems to be enjoying himself, despite his martyrdom,” said Erec. Near the center of the room, Armand was dancing with la Fontaine.
“I don’t think it counts as martyrdom when you’re dressed in court clothes and dancing with ladies,” said Rachelle. “Or when you’ve never met a forestborn.”
“You think he hasn’t?” asked Erec.
She remembered the pale, naked stumps of Armand’s arms, and the way he had stared her down. He didn’t seem like somebody who had never faced fear.
But he couldn’t have faced a forestborn.
“I know he hasn’t,” said Rachelle. “You do too. What the Forest claims, it doesn’t let go. If he had been marked, and if he had refused to kill, the mark would have killed him instead. That’s how it works.”
“World without end, amen,” said Erec. “And yet here he stands, and dances.”
“Because he lost his hands and didn’t want pity, so he tried for sainthood instead,” said Rachelle. “What else could it be? A miracle?”
“That’s what everyone else calls it.”
“That makes no sense.” Was the music picking up its pace, or was it just her own anger that made the swirl of the dance seem faster, sharper? “Three thousand years since Tyr and Zisa. In that time, the forestborn must have marked ten thousand people, all of whom had to die or kill—and now God decides to spare someone the choice? What kind of miracle is that?”
“You’re the one who still has faith,” said Erec. “You tell me.”
“I don’t have faith,” said Rachelle. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
Faith was trust. People who had it never became bloodbound, because rather than kill, they would lie down and die and trust God to make everything all right.
“Really?” Erec looked down at her, and for once there wasn’t amusement or condescension in his voice. “Then why are you always doing penance?”
“I’m not,” said Rachelle. The only appropriate penance was her death, and she had too much fight left in her for that. “I’m just doing as you taught me.”
“Oh?” said Erec. “When did I teach you to live in a miserable garret and patrol the streets without rest?”
“When I arrived,” said Rachelle. “You told me there was no going back, so I should make use of what I’d become.”
It was why she considered him a friend, no matter how he annoyed her sometimes. Rachelle had fled to Rocamadour because she wanted to live. But once she had gotten there—once she had been accepted as the King’s bloodbound and knew she could live at least a little longer—she’d realized she had no reason left for living. She had spent whole days in bed, too dull with misery to stand; when she was dragged out to fight woodspawn, she had flung herself at their claws, half hoping for death. It was Erec who had mocked and goaded her into sword practice; Erec who had kissed her into wanting life again; Erec who had told her to make use of what she was.
And once she had realized that she could be useful—that her power, however wicked, could also protect—there had been no stopping her.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Erec.
“Well, no, of course not,” said Rachelle fondly. “Too bad for you.”
As she spoke, the music came to an end; Erec gave her a deep bow. “I really don’t understand your scruples,” he said. “Is it because of your damned soul that you like to talk about so much? If you’re doomed to hell no matter what, you might as well enjoy yourself.”
“If I’m damned, what’s the point of pretending that I’m not?” asked Rachelle. The vast, colorful, chattering crowd swirled around them, and she felt like she was watching it from across a vast gulf. She didn’t understand how Erec or any of the bloodbound could bear to pretend they had any part in this glittering, carefree world.
“You really mean that?”
There was an odd note in his voice; she looked up, and so she had a stomach-lurching half instant to realize what he was about to do before he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her.
She’d remembered that she liked his kisses, but she had forgotten how much. It felt like the Forest was growing and casting shadows inside her, vast and senseless and wild. When he finally released her, she was shaking.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “By all means, let’s avoid pretending.”
And for a moment, she could see the Forest. Shadowy trunks rose through the crowd like pillars; vines wound up statues and draped over the paintings; the candelabras cast leaflike shadows. Crimson, four-winged birds fluttered among the dancers. She couldn’t hear the music or the chatter of the crowd, only the soft, vast susurration of wind among infinite branches.
Then she blinked and it was gone, so quickly that she might have imagined it. She must have imagined it: Château de Lune was far too well-protected for the Forest to manifest here, and if it did, she would see it for more than a flickering instant.
That was how much power Erec had over her: he could make her think she was seeing the Forest.
And now he was smirking at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever rendered you speechless before.”
She wanted to slap his face. She had told him never to kiss her again. She also wanted to forget what she’d said and pull him close for another kiss. But either reaction would amuse him. That was the problem with Erec: everything was always a game to him, and he always won.
Instead she tried to look bored. But she knew she was blushing, and anyway it was already too late. He would be insufferable the rest of the evening.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said flatly, turning away.
Rachelle rolled her eyes, but she remembered the easy happiness when they had danced the other night, and she let him draw her out among the dancing couples. At first all she could do was watch him and watch the other women in the dance, trying to keep pace and not stumble. It was a statelier, more mannered dance than he had dragged her through in the courtyard. Instead of endless twirls, he clasped only one of her hands as they moved in a pattern of step, skip-skip, bow; step, skip-skip, turn. But even one-handed, Erec could steer her, and bloodbound grace made up the rest. In a few minutes, she could move through the steps without thinking.
“Your charge seems to be enjoying himself, despite his martyrdom,” said Erec. Near the center of the room, Armand was dancing with la Fontaine.
“I don’t think it counts as martyrdom when you’re dressed in court clothes and dancing with ladies,” said Rachelle. “Or when you’ve never met a forestborn.”
“You think he hasn’t?” asked Erec.
She remembered the pale, naked stumps of Armand’s arms, and the way he had stared her down. He didn’t seem like somebody who had never faced fear.
But he couldn’t have faced a forestborn.
“I know he hasn’t,” said Rachelle. “You do too. What the Forest claims, it doesn’t let go. If he had been marked, and if he had refused to kill, the mark would have killed him instead. That’s how it works.”
“World without end, amen,” said Erec. “And yet here he stands, and dances.”
“Because he lost his hands and didn’t want pity, so he tried for sainthood instead,” said Rachelle. “What else could it be? A miracle?”
“That’s what everyone else calls it.”
“That makes no sense.” Was the music picking up its pace, or was it just her own anger that made the swirl of the dance seem faster, sharper? “Three thousand years since Tyr and Zisa. In that time, the forestborn must have marked ten thousand people, all of whom had to die or kill—and now God decides to spare someone the choice? What kind of miracle is that?”
“You’re the one who still has faith,” said Erec. “You tell me.”
“I don’t have faith,” said Rachelle. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
Faith was trust. People who had it never became bloodbound, because rather than kill, they would lie down and die and trust God to make everything all right.
“Really?” Erec looked down at her, and for once there wasn’t amusement or condescension in his voice. “Then why are you always doing penance?”
“I’m not,” said Rachelle. The only appropriate penance was her death, and she had too much fight left in her for that. “I’m just doing as you taught me.”
“Oh?” said Erec. “When did I teach you to live in a miserable garret and patrol the streets without rest?”
“When I arrived,” said Rachelle. “You told me there was no going back, so I should make use of what I’d become.”
It was why she considered him a friend, no matter how he annoyed her sometimes. Rachelle had fled to Rocamadour because she wanted to live. But once she had gotten there—once she had been accepted as the King’s bloodbound and knew she could live at least a little longer—she’d realized she had no reason left for living. She had spent whole days in bed, too dull with misery to stand; when she was dragged out to fight woodspawn, she had flung herself at their claws, half hoping for death. It was Erec who had mocked and goaded her into sword practice; Erec who had kissed her into wanting life again; Erec who had told her to make use of what she was.
And once she had realized that she could be useful—that her power, however wicked, could also protect—there had been no stopping her.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Erec.
“Well, no, of course not,” said Rachelle fondly. “Too bad for you.”
As she spoke, the music came to an end; Erec gave her a deep bow. “I really don’t understand your scruples,” he said. “Is it because of your damned soul that you like to talk about so much? If you’re doomed to hell no matter what, you might as well enjoy yourself.”
“If I’m damned, what’s the point of pretending that I’m not?” asked Rachelle. The vast, colorful, chattering crowd swirled around them, and she felt like she was watching it from across a vast gulf. She didn’t understand how Erec or any of the bloodbound could bear to pretend they had any part in this glittering, carefree world.
“You really mean that?”
There was an odd note in his voice; she looked up, and so she had a stomach-lurching half instant to realize what he was about to do before he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her.
She’d remembered that she liked his kisses, but she had forgotten how much. It felt like the Forest was growing and casting shadows inside her, vast and senseless and wild. When he finally released her, she was shaking.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “By all means, let’s avoid pretending.”
And for a moment, she could see the Forest. Shadowy trunks rose through the crowd like pillars; vines wound up statues and draped over the paintings; the candelabras cast leaflike shadows. Crimson, four-winged birds fluttered among the dancers. She couldn’t hear the music or the chatter of the crowd, only the soft, vast susurration of wind among infinite branches.
Then she blinked and it was gone, so quickly that she might have imagined it. She must have imagined it: Château de Lune was far too well-protected for the Forest to manifest here, and if it did, she would see it for more than a flickering instant.
That was how much power Erec had over her: he could make her think she was seeing the Forest.
And now he was smirking at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever rendered you speechless before.”
She wanted to slap his face. She had told him never to kiss her again. She also wanted to forget what she’d said and pull him close for another kiss. But either reaction would amuse him. That was the problem with Erec: everything was always a game to him, and he always won.
Instead she tried to look bored. But she knew she was blushing, and anyway it was already too late. He would be insufferable the rest of the evening.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said flatly, turning away.
