Crimson Bound
Page 81
Amélie grinned and pulled her into an embrace.
“I wouldn’t be here without you,” Rachelle said when Amélie released her. “You know that, don’t you? I would have given up and lost myself to the Forest years ago.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” said Amélie.
“No,” said Rachelle. “I’m not. That night we met—when I was too late to save your father, I thought that at least I got to save you. But it was really you who saved me.”
Amélie smiled at her. She looked fragile and beautiful and terribly strong. “Thank you,” she said.
The evening after Amélie left, Rachelle went out running in the gardens. The Château’s bells had just finished ringing nine o’clock, and yet the sun still lingered on the horizon. Rachelle had never imagined the world could be so full of light.
She had never imagined, either, what it would be like to run as a human.
It was still a delight. The air was still cool and sweet in her throat, even if it was not the magical, inhuman sweetness of the Great Forest. The pounding of her heart was still a drug. But soon—so very soon—her legs burned and her chest ached. She had to lean against a tree, gasping for breath. Sweat slid down her back.
Once she could have run forever. Once the wound on her palm would have healed in minutes; now, after two days, it was a scabbed mess that ached and stung when she flexed her hand.
She was grateful—so very, very grateful—to be human again. To be free. And yet she missed the strength and speed and grace she’d had as a bloodbound. She missed them bitterly.
A breeze stirred against her face. She looked up.
In the spaces between the trees, other phantom trees stretched out their translucent branches, like indentations in the air.
The breeze stirred again. It sounded like it was laughing to itself. Dimly, between the shadows of the trees, she saw something that looked like a white deer with red eyes. A woodspawn.
She blinked, and the vision was gone. She was the most alien thing among the trees once more.
But the song of the wind still trembled in her blood. The Forest had been here—it was still here, right now, even if she couldn’t see it. Though the Devourer had gone, the Great Forest was living still. And it no longer had the same feeling of heartless menace as it had before.
She supposed it made sense. The Devourer did not seem like a creature that could create anything, much less the terrible beauty of the Great Forest.
Uncounted ages ago—not just before the daylight, but before the Devourer swallowed the sun and moon to begin with, before it enmeshed itself in the human world at all—the Great Forest had stood tall. How it must have delighted the people who lived then. And then the Devourer took it from them.
Now, perhaps, they would have it back.
Erec, you fool, she thought. There was a whole world waiting for us.
And there, surrounded by the shadow of the Forest that could have been, that would be now—dark but no longer so dreadful—she cried for Erec.
Eventually she dried her eyes. She stood and walked back toward the Château, out of the trees.
Back toward Armand. He stood by one of the fountains, staring at the falling water that glittered in the sunset light.
Her heart thudded. She meant to slip past him silently, but then he looked up at her and said, “Rachelle.”
And she couldn’t move. She could only stare at him, drinking in the curve of his cheek, the line of his mouth, wishing that he was still hers to touch.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Well. I’m human. And nobody seems to want me executed.”
He wasn’t happy. She could tell that from the way he had planted himself, shoulders braced, but she couldn’t read anything on his face. That was what hurt most of all, that he was hiding from her.
“I killed you,” he said suddenly. “I’m—really very sorry.”
It was the last thing she had expected him to say.
“You didn’t kill me, you killed the Devourer inside of me,” she said after a moment. “Isn’t that what you said at the salon?”
He choked out a small laugh, his face coming alive again. “I did. But—that was when I thought I couldn’t possibly be the one holding the blade. I spent so much time pretending to be a saint, I think I fooled myself as well.”
“It’s true now, isn’t it?” said Rachelle. “You were ready to die twice to stop the Devourer. You helped save Gévaudan.”
“I did everything wrong,” he said. “Those men who helped in the coup, they trusted me to lead them, and I ruined our chances—”
“I was the one who killed them. Some of them.” Rachelle’s heart thudded when she said the words, and for a moment she couldn’t look at him.
When she dared a glance, he was looking annoyed. “You thought we were planning to slaughter you,” he said. “Because I didn’t tell you, because I couldn’t make up my mind if you knew what the forestborn were planning or not.”
“It was a reasonable suspicion,” said Rachelle.
“And then I let them raise the Forest when they threatened you. And then I killed you. I’m sorry.”
“You do realize,” said Rachelle, “that you just apologized for saving my life and for ending it?”
His mouth curved wryly.
She took a step closer. “It’s true. You did wrong, and you should have died first. But I forgive you for it. I’ve heard that God will too.”
He laughed then, sudden and raw and real. “You’re not going to let me forget anything I ever said, are you?”
“Never.” Her mouth curved up as her eyes met his, and it felt right, it felt like—
Why did she feel as if they had a long history of easy happiness between them? They had never been anything but enemies or else uneasy allies. Jailer and prisoner, sinner and saint. The kisses in between had hardly changed a thing.
“I’m not sorry I lied to you about the offering,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Armand, “because I still don’t forgive you for it.” Abruptly his lips pressed together in a flat line. After a moment he went on, his voice expressionless, “But that doesn’t matter anymore. If you feel like you owe me something . . . you don’t. You can leave.”
She’d expected the words, but they still hit her like a kick to the chest. Armand wasn’t looking at her anymore; he’d started to angle his body away, his head bent down to stare at the grass. As if he didn’t want to be any closer to her than he had to be.
“I wouldn’t be here without you,” Rachelle said when Amélie released her. “You know that, don’t you? I would have given up and lost myself to the Forest years ago.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” said Amélie.
“No,” said Rachelle. “I’m not. That night we met—when I was too late to save your father, I thought that at least I got to save you. But it was really you who saved me.”
Amélie smiled at her. She looked fragile and beautiful and terribly strong. “Thank you,” she said.
The evening after Amélie left, Rachelle went out running in the gardens. The Château’s bells had just finished ringing nine o’clock, and yet the sun still lingered on the horizon. Rachelle had never imagined the world could be so full of light.
She had never imagined, either, what it would be like to run as a human.
It was still a delight. The air was still cool and sweet in her throat, even if it was not the magical, inhuman sweetness of the Great Forest. The pounding of her heart was still a drug. But soon—so very soon—her legs burned and her chest ached. She had to lean against a tree, gasping for breath. Sweat slid down her back.
Once she could have run forever. Once the wound on her palm would have healed in minutes; now, after two days, it was a scabbed mess that ached and stung when she flexed her hand.
She was grateful—so very, very grateful—to be human again. To be free. And yet she missed the strength and speed and grace she’d had as a bloodbound. She missed them bitterly.
A breeze stirred against her face. She looked up.
In the spaces between the trees, other phantom trees stretched out their translucent branches, like indentations in the air.
The breeze stirred again. It sounded like it was laughing to itself. Dimly, between the shadows of the trees, she saw something that looked like a white deer with red eyes. A woodspawn.
She blinked, and the vision was gone. She was the most alien thing among the trees once more.
But the song of the wind still trembled in her blood. The Forest had been here—it was still here, right now, even if she couldn’t see it. Though the Devourer had gone, the Great Forest was living still. And it no longer had the same feeling of heartless menace as it had before.
She supposed it made sense. The Devourer did not seem like a creature that could create anything, much less the terrible beauty of the Great Forest.
Uncounted ages ago—not just before the daylight, but before the Devourer swallowed the sun and moon to begin with, before it enmeshed itself in the human world at all—the Great Forest had stood tall. How it must have delighted the people who lived then. And then the Devourer took it from them.
Now, perhaps, they would have it back.
Erec, you fool, she thought. There was a whole world waiting for us.
And there, surrounded by the shadow of the Forest that could have been, that would be now—dark but no longer so dreadful—she cried for Erec.
Eventually she dried her eyes. She stood and walked back toward the Château, out of the trees.
Back toward Armand. He stood by one of the fountains, staring at the falling water that glittered in the sunset light.
Her heart thudded. She meant to slip past him silently, but then he looked up at her and said, “Rachelle.”
And she couldn’t move. She could only stare at him, drinking in the curve of his cheek, the line of his mouth, wishing that he was still hers to touch.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Well. I’m human. And nobody seems to want me executed.”
He wasn’t happy. She could tell that from the way he had planted himself, shoulders braced, but she couldn’t read anything on his face. That was what hurt most of all, that he was hiding from her.
“I killed you,” he said suddenly. “I’m—really very sorry.”
It was the last thing she had expected him to say.
“You didn’t kill me, you killed the Devourer inside of me,” she said after a moment. “Isn’t that what you said at the salon?”
He choked out a small laugh, his face coming alive again. “I did. But—that was when I thought I couldn’t possibly be the one holding the blade. I spent so much time pretending to be a saint, I think I fooled myself as well.”
“It’s true now, isn’t it?” said Rachelle. “You were ready to die twice to stop the Devourer. You helped save Gévaudan.”
“I did everything wrong,” he said. “Those men who helped in the coup, they trusted me to lead them, and I ruined our chances—”
“I was the one who killed them. Some of them.” Rachelle’s heart thudded when she said the words, and for a moment she couldn’t look at him.
When she dared a glance, he was looking annoyed. “You thought we were planning to slaughter you,” he said. “Because I didn’t tell you, because I couldn’t make up my mind if you knew what the forestborn were planning or not.”
“It was a reasonable suspicion,” said Rachelle.
“And then I let them raise the Forest when they threatened you. And then I killed you. I’m sorry.”
“You do realize,” said Rachelle, “that you just apologized for saving my life and for ending it?”
His mouth curved wryly.
She took a step closer. “It’s true. You did wrong, and you should have died first. But I forgive you for it. I’ve heard that God will too.”
He laughed then, sudden and raw and real. “You’re not going to let me forget anything I ever said, are you?”
“Never.” Her mouth curved up as her eyes met his, and it felt right, it felt like—
Why did she feel as if they had a long history of easy happiness between them? They had never been anything but enemies or else uneasy allies. Jailer and prisoner, sinner and saint. The kisses in between had hardly changed a thing.
“I’m not sorry I lied to you about the offering,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Armand, “because I still don’t forgive you for it.” Abruptly his lips pressed together in a flat line. After a moment he went on, his voice expressionless, “But that doesn’t matter anymore. If you feel like you owe me something . . . you don’t. You can leave.”
She’d expected the words, but they still hit her like a kick to the chest. Armand wasn’t looking at her anymore; he’d started to angle his body away, his head bent down to stare at the grass. As if he didn’t want to be any closer to her than he had to be.
