Crimson Bound
Page 79
Rachelle looked again at the strings bound to her hands. She knew, already, what she would do. What she must do.
“I miss you,” she said quietly. “I miss you so much.”
Aunt Léonie smiled and ruffled her hair. “It’s not that long to wait, you know.”
Rachelle stood. Durendal lay beside her on the ground; she picked it up with one hand. In the other, she clutched the threads, tiny and delicate and everlasting.
“I love you,” she said to Aunt Léonie, and then she followed the threads away into the darkness.
35
And then she woke. Her body felt strange, at once heavy and empty. Her hand was still curled around Durendal, which had become a needle again; it didn’t hurt much, but she could tell it was half-buried in her hand and would have to be dug out.
She was lying on somebody’s lap, a heavy metal hand resting on her shoulder. It was Armand, she realized, and she heard his voice, dull and lifeless: “Leave me alone.”
Justine replied, “You won’t feel that way when she starts to rot.”
Rachelle’s breath hissed in.
Instantly Armand went tense. “Rachelle?” he said, his voice soft and raw.
She opened her eyes and saw glory. The whole world was veined with silver threads, twisting and twirling and dancing. Then she blinked, and it was gone. She was in one of the groves of the Château. The morning sunlight had just begun to pick its way between the trees, Armand was looking down at her in desperate relief, and that was enough glory to last her a lifetime.
“Thank God,” he breathed, and he started to lean down as if to kiss her.
Then he stopped, looking terribly unsure.
“Rachelle!” Amélie screamed the next moment, and pulled her up out of Armand’s lap.
Amélie was not a bloodbound anymore. Rachelle knew because she pushed her back and checked before embracing her. And then Rachelle realized why she felt so strange: the power of the Forest was entirely gone from her, no longer strengthening her limbs, whispering in her ears, filling the world around her with half-seen depths. She was human once more, and it made her body feel like a heavy, foreign thing.
But it also meant that Amélie could hold her without fear. She hugged her even tighter.
“I still can’t scold you,” Amélie whispered, “but you are never allowed to do that again.”
“What happened?” asked Rachelle
“You lied,” said Armand, but he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything, just quiet and blank.
“I didn’t lie,” said Rachelle. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
He smiled faintly. He wasn’t exactly looking at her, and that was wrong, all wrong—
“We slaughtered a lot of forestborn,” said Justine. “D’Anjou disappeared into thin air, which I suspect you can tell us more about. Then the rest of them fell down dead, and we were back in the Château grounds. All the bloodbound fell dead or were no longer bloodbound.”
“And you were dead,” said Amélie. Her arms were still around Rachelle. “The wound had healed, but you were still dead.”
“So was the King,” said Justine. “Permanently. Since most of the nobility were in hysterics, the Bishop took control. He’s sent men to find the room where d’Anjou hid Raoul Courtavel.”
“We’ll have a just king by next week,” said Amélie. “But what happened to you?”
Rachelle looked at her hand, saw the bloody mess of the half-impaled needle, and winced. “Durendal.” She sighed. “And my aunt.”
As soon as Amélie saw the wound, she clucked, seized Rachelle’s hand, and started carefully drawing out the needle.
“I’m going to go tell the Bishop you’re alive,” said Justine. She smiled, briefly, and left.
Armand stood. He was still not exactly looking at any of them. “I need to go back,” he said.
Rachelle gripped Amélie’s shoulder and used it to push herself to her feet. “Then I’m coming with you,” she said.
The three of them walked back to the Château together. The gardens were a mess: the ground churned up and stained with blood. Not all the bodies were cleared away yet.
The Château was in chaos. Most of the surviving guests from the party had gathered in the Hall of Mirrors. Some were being treated for their wounds. Some were drinking coffee brought by harried-looking servants. And some were simply huddled into themselves, staring into empty air.
Almost all of them turned to look when Armand walked in.
“Cousin!” Vincent Angevin’s voice boomed across the hall, and Rachelle turned to see him striding toward them. Unlike many of the dirty, frightened nobles, his coat was clean and crisp, his curls perfectly arrayed. If he’d been at the celebration the night before, he’d found time to clean up afterward.
“I’m glad to see you’re alive,” he said with a hearty laugh that made him seem very like his late uncle.
“Thank you,” Armand said blandly.
Vincent slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a sad day, but I’m sure good will come of it. And I know I’ll have your support in the days ahead, as I take up my dear uncle’s mantle.”
Armand pressed his lips together for a moment as he looked at Vincent.
“No,” he said, his voice quiet and carrying. “I won’t help you.”
Clearly it had not occurred to Vincent that Armand might refuse him to his face in public. It took him a moment to respond. “You know my uncle wanted me to—”
“The King, my father, handed me over to the forestborn who cut off my hands,” said Armand, his voice growing louder. “He forced me to help him while he was alive, but now that he’s dead, I don’t give a damn what he wanted. Or what you want.”
“I don’t either,” put in Rachelle. “And I have a sword.”
Vincent huffed. “I would advise you not to speak that way to your future king—”
“I would advise you,” said Armand, in a voice that was entirely calm but reached every corner of the hall, “not to threaten somebody who has faced the Devourer twice. One of us walked away. It wasn’t him.”
He met Vincent’s eyes, and there was no hint of hesitation anywhere in his body. Every eye in the hall was on him, and though Vincent still had his chest thrust out, Rachelle could tell he was uneasy.
Nobody but Rachelle had ever seen Armand when he wasn’t playing the part of obedient saint. Even she hadn’t ever seen him when he wasn’t having hostages used against him.
“I miss you,” she said quietly. “I miss you so much.”
Aunt Léonie smiled and ruffled her hair. “It’s not that long to wait, you know.”
Rachelle stood. Durendal lay beside her on the ground; she picked it up with one hand. In the other, she clutched the threads, tiny and delicate and everlasting.
“I love you,” she said to Aunt Léonie, and then she followed the threads away into the darkness.
35
And then she woke. Her body felt strange, at once heavy and empty. Her hand was still curled around Durendal, which had become a needle again; it didn’t hurt much, but she could tell it was half-buried in her hand and would have to be dug out.
She was lying on somebody’s lap, a heavy metal hand resting on her shoulder. It was Armand, she realized, and she heard his voice, dull and lifeless: “Leave me alone.”
Justine replied, “You won’t feel that way when she starts to rot.”
Rachelle’s breath hissed in.
Instantly Armand went tense. “Rachelle?” he said, his voice soft and raw.
She opened her eyes and saw glory. The whole world was veined with silver threads, twisting and twirling and dancing. Then she blinked, and it was gone. She was in one of the groves of the Château. The morning sunlight had just begun to pick its way between the trees, Armand was looking down at her in desperate relief, and that was enough glory to last her a lifetime.
“Thank God,” he breathed, and he started to lean down as if to kiss her.
Then he stopped, looking terribly unsure.
“Rachelle!” Amélie screamed the next moment, and pulled her up out of Armand’s lap.
Amélie was not a bloodbound anymore. Rachelle knew because she pushed her back and checked before embracing her. And then Rachelle realized why she felt so strange: the power of the Forest was entirely gone from her, no longer strengthening her limbs, whispering in her ears, filling the world around her with half-seen depths. She was human once more, and it made her body feel like a heavy, foreign thing.
But it also meant that Amélie could hold her without fear. She hugged her even tighter.
“I still can’t scold you,” Amélie whispered, “but you are never allowed to do that again.”
“What happened?” asked Rachelle
“You lied,” said Armand, but he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything, just quiet and blank.
“I didn’t lie,” said Rachelle. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
He smiled faintly. He wasn’t exactly looking at her, and that was wrong, all wrong—
“We slaughtered a lot of forestborn,” said Justine. “D’Anjou disappeared into thin air, which I suspect you can tell us more about. Then the rest of them fell down dead, and we were back in the Château grounds. All the bloodbound fell dead or were no longer bloodbound.”
“And you were dead,” said Amélie. Her arms were still around Rachelle. “The wound had healed, but you were still dead.”
“So was the King,” said Justine. “Permanently. Since most of the nobility were in hysterics, the Bishop took control. He’s sent men to find the room where d’Anjou hid Raoul Courtavel.”
“We’ll have a just king by next week,” said Amélie. “But what happened to you?”
Rachelle looked at her hand, saw the bloody mess of the half-impaled needle, and winced. “Durendal.” She sighed. “And my aunt.”
As soon as Amélie saw the wound, she clucked, seized Rachelle’s hand, and started carefully drawing out the needle.
“I’m going to go tell the Bishop you’re alive,” said Justine. She smiled, briefly, and left.
Armand stood. He was still not exactly looking at any of them. “I need to go back,” he said.
Rachelle gripped Amélie’s shoulder and used it to push herself to her feet. “Then I’m coming with you,” she said.
The three of them walked back to the Château together. The gardens were a mess: the ground churned up and stained with blood. Not all the bodies were cleared away yet.
The Château was in chaos. Most of the surviving guests from the party had gathered in the Hall of Mirrors. Some were being treated for their wounds. Some were drinking coffee brought by harried-looking servants. And some were simply huddled into themselves, staring into empty air.
Almost all of them turned to look when Armand walked in.
“Cousin!” Vincent Angevin’s voice boomed across the hall, and Rachelle turned to see him striding toward them. Unlike many of the dirty, frightened nobles, his coat was clean and crisp, his curls perfectly arrayed. If he’d been at the celebration the night before, he’d found time to clean up afterward.
“I’m glad to see you’re alive,” he said with a hearty laugh that made him seem very like his late uncle.
“Thank you,” Armand said blandly.
Vincent slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a sad day, but I’m sure good will come of it. And I know I’ll have your support in the days ahead, as I take up my dear uncle’s mantle.”
Armand pressed his lips together for a moment as he looked at Vincent.
“No,” he said, his voice quiet and carrying. “I won’t help you.”
Clearly it had not occurred to Vincent that Armand might refuse him to his face in public. It took him a moment to respond. “You know my uncle wanted me to—”
“The King, my father, handed me over to the forestborn who cut off my hands,” said Armand, his voice growing louder. “He forced me to help him while he was alive, but now that he’s dead, I don’t give a damn what he wanted. Or what you want.”
“I don’t either,” put in Rachelle. “And I have a sword.”
Vincent huffed. “I would advise you not to speak that way to your future king—”
“I would advise you,” said Armand, in a voice that was entirely calm but reached every corner of the hall, “not to threaten somebody who has faced the Devourer twice. One of us walked away. It wasn’t him.”
He met Vincent’s eyes, and there was no hint of hesitation anywhere in his body. Every eye in the hall was on him, and though Vincent still had his chest thrust out, Rachelle could tell he was uneasy.
Nobody but Rachelle had ever seen Armand when he wasn’t playing the part of obedient saint. Even she hadn’t ever seen him when he wasn’t having hostages used against him.
