Crimson Bound Read online

  She’d been angry at that. She’d wanted to master the charm so she could use it against the forestborn she was meeting in the woods.

  Now she wondered, What if I used it to find Joyeuse?

  She had seen woodwife charms a few times since becoming a bloodbound, and she had been able to sense the power woven into them. She had guessed that meant she would be able to awaken a charm. But making a charm . . . that was different. In three years, Rachelle had never once tried to; she’d simply assumed it was impossible, now that she was one of the things those charms repelled.

  But she had nothing to lose by trying.

  Amélie was puzzled, but she gave Rachelle a length of yarn from her knitting basket easily enough. That night Rachelle didn’t go out wandering but sat up in her bed, twisting the yarn around and around in her fingers.

  Even after three years, her hands still remembered how to move, but they were clumsy, as if they weren’t quite attached to her.

  Slowly, she began to form the charm: three loops twining around each other, with a knot in the center. She thought it was right. She was almost certain that it was the right shape, and as she stared at it, she thought she felt a slight flicker of power.

  If it is not awakened properly, it can be very destructive, Aunt Léonie had said.

  Rachelle slipped out of the bedroom. She went nearly all the way back to the Hall of Mirrors, but she stopped in a darkened corridor just short of it, because she didn’t want to unleash anything very destructive around so many mirrors.

  She looked down at the charm in her hand: three little loops, and two tails drooping down toward the floor.

  Her pulse quickened. This could be the night that she found Joyeuse. She wouldn’t have to stand in attendance on a fake saint anymore; she wouldn’t have to help him deceive people into making him king. She could be free.

  Or this could be the night that she finally did something stupid enough to kill herself. And then she would still be free.

  She let out a short, quick breath and sat down cross-legged on the floor. She cupped her hands around the charm. She tried to clear her mind of distractions, the way Aunt Léonie had taught her.

  She thought, I need Joyeuse. I need it.

  I need it.

  There was a curious sensation, like weight shifting and finding its balance. The air went still in her lungs.

  The charm was warm in her hands.

  Without meaning to, Rachelle’s eyes snapped open and she stood in a single smooth motion. It felt like there was a string tied along the length of her spine, drawing her up, and now it was pulling her forward.

  She walked toward the doorway. She felt like she was floating. She thought, Joyeuse.

  But the sense of weight continued rolling, shifting, growing—

  And as she stepped through the doorway into the Hall of Mirrors, her control broke. The charm seared her hands like fire, and her vision flashed white.

  She knew she was falling.

  Then she knew nothing.

  She woke up in the Great Forest. There were flowers and vines sprouting all around her, and the sweet Forest wind caressed her face.

  Then she blinked, and realized she was still in the Hall of Mirrors—but overshadowed by the Forest.

  Impossible. The Forest didn’t appear in human homes unless something terrible called it forth, like a bloodbound turning into a forestborn. And she still felt human. She didn’t think Erec was ready to leave the court yet, either.

  Rachelle knew she should be scared, but she was still too dazed by the charm’s destruction; her head felt cold and hollow. Slowly she sat up. The floor seemed to rock underneath her as she moved; she put a hand against the floor to steady herself, and gasped in pain. Her palms were raw and bloody.

  One slow breath. Two. She looked around: the Hall of Mirrors was still standing, and the Forest was fading away from it as she watched. Everything was all right, despite what Aunt Léonie had said.

  Then she noticed that the mirrors nearest to her were shattered.

  She had to get out of the hall before she got in trouble.

  Rachelle managed to stand, but she forgot and tried to steady herself with her hand again, which made her flinch and stagger away from the wall.

  Somehow she got back to her room without anyone seeing her. She climbed into her bed and a moment later was asleep.

  And she dreamed.

  She was in a forest of dead black trees. The ground was covered in fine white dust; the sky was featureless gray. Ahead of her, through the trees, she could see a small cottage.

  Everything was real: the cool wind blowing between her fingers, the dust shifting under her feet. The terrified breath rasping in her throat.

  She walked forward. She couldn’t stop her feet from moving, though she tried desperately, because even a glimpse of the cottage’s flat walls and closed door—its roof thatched with bones—made her choke with terror. But she still took one step and then another. She knew that when she reached the door, she would be helpless to stop herself from opening it. She knew that what lay beyond the door would destroy her.

  The scar on her right hand burned with a terrible cold fire, like a last warning. But she couldn’t stop.

  One step forward.

  Then another.

  Rachelle woke gasping for breath, her body screaming at her to run. But there was nowhere to go: the nightmare was inside of her, part of her.

  She’d had the dream before, over and over. All the bloodbound did. Sooner or later, they all reached the cottage and opened the door. And then they became forestborn.

  Not tonight, she thought. Not tonight.

  Now that her terror was fading, she realized that her head ached terribly. And then she remembered what she had been doing the night before. And that she had failed.

  What had she been thinking? Why had she imagined that a bloodbound would be able to use a woodwife charm? She was one of the things that those charms were meant to kill.

  She was one of the things that Joyeuse was meant to kill, too. Maybe that was why she couldn’t find it.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  The next day, all anyone could talk about was the mysterious vandal who had attacked the Hall of Mirrors. Even Erec was—well, not worried, but he spent a good deal of the day talking to the guard about trying to find the culprit.

  Rachelle’s hands had healed in the night—there were benefits to being bloodbound—but she still felt a fleeting, phantom ache where the charm had burst apart in her grasp. Her head ached too, whenever she moved too quickly or saw a sudden shaft of bright sunlight.

  None of it mattered beside the useless fury of knowing that there was nothing more she could do. She’d tried and tried and done her best, and none of it had helped.

  Maybe finding Joyeuse had been a fool’s dream all along. Maybe she should have spent the time preparing to fight her forestborn.

  “What’s wrong?” Amélie asked her that afternoon.

  For once Armand was not required anywhere in the Château. Rachelle might have been able to slip out and search for the door without Erec hearing about it, but today she didn’t have the heart to try. She would try, again and again, until time ran out and Endless Night fell and she died fighting. But right now, her heart and her bones were made of lead. So she sat still and watched Amélie knit. She stared at the fine brown hairs falling out of Amélie’s braid, at the quick, deft motions of her tiny hands, and she wondered how long somebody so gentle would survive, once Endless Night returned.

  “Rachelle?” Amélie was looking straight at her now, forehead creased. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Rachelle said quickly. “Nothing.” Guilt tugged at her stomach. But if she couldn’t save Amélie, at least she could let her live in peace a little longer. Surely there was no need to tell her the truth when it couldn’t save her.

/>   “Of course.” Amélie’s voice was sharper than she’d ever heard it before. “Nothing’s ever wrong.” She stared at her yarn; she wrapped it around the needle with a particularly ferocious gesture.

  It was all wrong; Amélie was never angry. Rachelle sat up straight. “Did something happen?”

  “Nothing,” said Amélie, still staring at her knitting. Her needles clacked once, twice. Then her hands stilled and she sighed. “A letter from my mother. I’m worried.”

  “Woodspawn?” said Rachelle, and her body tensed with the need to fight. She should have known there wouldn’t be enough bloodbound to patrol the city properly without her. She should have known, and now people were dying, and it was all her fault—

  “What?” Amélie looked up at her. “No. The riot. You know.”

  “The riot?” Rachelle echoed stupidly.

  “I suppose it wasn’t quite a riot—my mother called it a ‘tussle’ in her letter, but of course she never tells me the whole truth—” Amélie paused, staring at her. “You mean you didn’t know?”

  “No,” said Rachelle, feeling like the ground was rocking underneath her. “What happened? What did the Bishop do?”

  “Nothing,” said Amélie, looking nervous now. “It was just a crowd on the streets. There was a bloodbound—Raymond something, I think—some people say he was hurting a child, some say he came to blows with a drunkard. Whatever happened, the people turned on him. They beat him half to death.”

  It must have been Raymond Dubois. He was the newest of the King’s bloodbound in Rocamadour. Rachelle had always disliked him, because he was never far from the prostitutes in Thieves’ Alley, but when she imagined him being trampled into the mud and cobblestones by a furious crowd, her stomach turned.

  “The city guard’s rounded up at least a dozen people,” Amélie went on, “but who knows if they’re the ones who were really there.” Her mouth tightened. “People are scared, and angry. Next time there may be a real riot. And Mother will never run, not even if it happens on her doorstep. She didn’t even tell me the whole story in her letter; I had to get it from the other servants.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachelle said faintly, as she thought, Erec knew. He must have known my city was falling to pieces. And he didn’t tell me.

  He didn’t tell me.

  It took her nearly an hour to find him, which did not improve her mood. He was hidden away in a little-used corner of the Château, talking to a pair of the bland-faced lackeys who ran his personal errands. And while some of those errands were simply setting up assignations with ladies, a lot of them also involved spying out and arresting the enemies of the King.

  He had to know everything about what had happened in Rocamadour.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rachelle demanded as she strode into the room.

  Erec looked up. “Didn’t tell you what?” he asked. “I think I’ve mentioned that you’re pretty almost every day.”

  “Can’t you leave off playing games for even a moment? I mean what’s happening in Rocamadour. The attack. It was Raymond Dubois, wasn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know you cared so much about him. Is that why you’re so cold to me?”

  “I care,” Rachelle growled, “about my city.”

  Erec waved a hand. The two lackeys filed out, and she was left alone with Erec, who rose to his feet.

  “Dubois was attacked. He survived. We can’t prove it was plotted by the Bishop, so the incident is useless to us. What’s to tell?”

  “I think I have a right to know,” she bit out, “when my city is getting closer to outright rebellion.”

  “Well, it’s not your problem now, is it?” said Erec.

  She stared at him. Words clogged in her throat. Maybe there weren’t words for what Rocamadour was to her. It was her prison and her penalty, full of mud and stink and people who hated her—and yet it was hers, her city to roam and protect. Her only purpose since she had become a bloodbound.

  She supposed that now her purpose was to find Joyeuse. But she seemed doomed to fail at that as completely as she’d failed at being a woodwife. And even if she never saw Rocamadour again—and she probably would never see it again—

  It was still hers.

  Erec would not understand any of that.

  She turned and left him without a word.

  When she got to the suite, Armand wasn’t there.

  She was so used to him being obedient that it took her a moment to absorb the fact that he really had vanished. Without permission.

  She asked the valets where he had gone; they only blinked large, pale eyes at her and said that monsieur had gone out to meet her, and wasn’t he with her?

  No, thought Rachelle, he’s plotting bloody revolution and Erec is going to have your heads.

  But she didn’t say that, because the next instant it occurred to her that maybe Armand hadn’t slipped away to plot treason. Maybe he was just trying to snatch one moment of freedom alone.

  And if that was the truth, she knew where he would go. Yesterday he had wanted to go to the library, and Rachelle had refused.

  It didn’t take her long to reach the library because she ran most of the way. When she got close, she slowed down and made her steps as soft as she could. She leaned close to the door.

  Armand spoke up, cheerful and casual and unrepentant. “You do realize this is a terrible idea? No matter how much you’re getting paid, it’s not enough.”

  She heard the crack of somebody slapping him across the face. “Shut up,” a man snarled.

  “Really, you should ask your master for more money. And”—his voice caught, then went on, more strained—“you really don’t want to press that knife any closer.”

  Rachelle felt terribly sure that the knife was right against his throat, and she cursed herself for not kicking down the door in the first instant. It would take only two heartbeats for her to get across the room, but Armand’s throat could be cut faster.

  “Why?” It was a different man’s voice, younger, brasher. “Should we be afraid of d’Anjou’s bitch? She isn’t even here.”

  “No,” said Armand. One soft and indifferent syllable. “You should be afraid of me.” The words drifted through the air, light and inevitable as feathers. “You should put down your knives and run, because if you kill me, you won’t escape, and you won’t like your punishment. And I really doubt that you can kill me.”

  It was a distraction. And by the sound of his voice, the knife wasn’t so close now. It was the perfect moment for Rachelle to kick down the door and charge inside.

  Or it was the perfect moment to be free of him. All she had to do was stand still for another minute, and the assassins would cut Armand’s throat. Despite his bluster, he had no way to stop them. Rachelle would not have to help him deceive anyone else. She would not have to fear him stirring up a mob to kill her.

  She suddenly remembered the morning they had met. If you wanted to hurt me, I couldn’t hope to escape. She remembered his eyes, gray and calm and waiting for her to hurt him. Ever since they met, he had been waiting.

  However she hated him, she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. She was going to rescue him.

  Then she realized she couldn’t move. The air was cold and sweet in her lungs and her limbs would not respond, no matter how she tried. She couldn’t see even the shadow of a leaf, but she still felt the power of the Great Forest all around her.

  At least one of the men in the library wasn’t impressed. He laughed, and said, “Pretty words won’t—”

  And suddenly, overwhelmingly, there was silence.

  Then she was loosed and staggering into the door just as she heard the thuds of falling bodies from inside.

  Her hands were still slightly numb; for a moment she scrabbled at the door handle, and then she flung it open.

  There had been three men in the room, and they were all collapsed to the floor. Armand sat slumped in a chair between them, and dread sliced through her body, but then he lifted hi
s head and she saw that while he was tied to the chair, he was alive.

  “You’re late,” he said. “You missed all the fun.” He was smiling but he looked a little dazed.

  Rachelle poked one of the fallen men with her boot. His chest still rose and fell with breathing, but otherwise he didn’t stir.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “They wanted to question me on my secret plans,” he said. “They told me they were going to kill me, and then that they would kill me if I didn’t tell them everything. They weren’t very thoughtful people.”

  “What happened to them?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe God heard my prayers.”

  “Tell me the truth or you stay in the chair. What happened?”

  His lips thinned as he met her eyes; then he said quietly, “You felt it just now, didn’t you? The Great Forest? I made them see it. I can do that to people, whenever I please, and if they’re not strong enough to bear the sight . . .” He shrugged. “They’ll recover in time.”

  She stared at his face—his bland, boring face—and it was more alien than the moon.

  “So?” he said. “Are you going to tell d’Anjou I’m not as helpless as he thinks?”

  “How can you do that?” Rachelle asked.

  He stared at her for a long, suspicious moment; then he said, “Because I can see the Forest. Everywhere, all the time.”

  “How?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  She grabbed his shoulders. “How can you do that?”

  He stared back at her, gray eyes calm. “You are not enough to frighten me, mademoiselle.”

  He hadn’t been marked by a bloodbound. He could not have been marked. But then how could he sense the Forest?

  Armand let out a little sigh that was almost a laugh and looked away. “It’s not a bad chair,” he said. “If you’ll read aloud to me, I don’t think I’ll mind staying here.”

  “I’m not going to leave you here,” she said.

  “Taking me to d’Anjou after all?”