Crimson Bound

  “You want me to stop Endless Night,” she finally managed to stay.

  “Yes,” said Armand. “I want you to stop it. And I think you will.” His mouth curved up. “The girl I fell in love with would have given anything to stop the Devourer. And even though you were working for d’Anjou—I don’t believe that girl was a lie. I think that’s who you really want to be, deep down.”

  “You believe in the Devourer,” said Rachelle, still dazed. She’d gotten so used to thinking no one else would ever believe her.

  “Well,” said Armand, “obviously.” He held up the stump of his right arm.

  “I don’t think you told me everything about how you lost your hands,” said Rachelle, and it was a little satisfying to see his expression sliding into puzzlement.

  “Let me go first,” she said. “I have wanted to kill the Devourer since I was twelve years old. That’s why I talked to a forestborn in the woods. After he marked me, he said that only Joyeuse or Durendal could kill the Devourer. That’s why I was looking for Prince Hugo’s door, because what you said—”

  “Above the sun, below the moon,” Armand whispered. He looked exactly as dazed by this conversation as she was.

  “I’d heard a story that Joyeuse was hidden behind a door like that. I’m not working for the Devourer. I’m not working for the forestborn. I am working for the King, but only because I want to stay alive, and I’m not planning to be alive much longer, because I met the forestborn who made me three weeks ago, and he told me that the Devourer was coming back before summer’s end. So you have to tell me where you hid Joyeuse.”

  Armand stared at her a moment longer. Then he started laughing.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Well,” he said, “if you want to kill the Devourer, you’re in luck. I’m going to be his new vessel.”

  And she remembered the stories: Tyr, and a thousand nameless sacrifices before him. Humans hollowed out and inhabited by the power of the Devourer, made the living link that allowed him to shroud all the world in the darkness of the forest.

  “Six months ago, my mother took me to court for the first time. It was dazzling. It was especially dazzling to meet my father, who seemed much more interested in me than I had ever expected. He told me that he expected great things of me.

  “Three days before Midwinter Night, a forestborn marked me. He said I had to kill or die. I said I would die. I meant to die. Only—I told you already, how the Royal Gift saved me. On the third day, I woke up in a secret room. The King was there, and d’Anjou, and the rest of the forestborn. They told me I was destined for a fate more glorious than any mortal had enjoyed in three thousand years. I’d passed the test, you see. Because I had the Royal Gift strongly enough to survive the mark, I could be a fitting vessel for the Devourer. I could break the binding Tyr and Zisa laid upon him long ago.”

  Rachelle hardly listened to that last part. “Erec was there?” she said. “Then he . . .”

  Armand’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He’s the one who cut off my hands.”

  He couldn’t, she wanted to protest. It didn’t seem possible, and not just because they had been lovers. They had hunted and laughed together. He had held her once when she cried. He had taught her to live again when she had been ready to die.

  But she remembered everything he had said to her: We’re both murderers. What never dies cannot be damned. We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. She remembered his relentless drive to win. She remembered his brother.

  His heart had rested in the Forest for a very long time now.

  “The thing is,” Armand went on, more rapidly, “to become a vessel, you have to consent. My father told me that the forestborn had agreed to heal his sickness if I would do it. He said that it was nothing, just a little pagan mummery to give extra power to their spells, and all for the glory and good of Gévaudan. I had read enough stories to know what the Devourer returning would mean, but he wouldn’t believe me. He begged me. And then commanded me. And then threatened.” He swallowed. “I kept saying no. D’Anjou cut off one hand and then the other. I still said no. Then the night was over, and the sacrifice can only be made on a solstice night.”

  Rachelle couldn’t look down. She had thought he was a fraud when she met him, and once she had started to believe him she was used to him, and somehow she had never bothered to think that there had been a moment when he was bleeding and screaming. Or a moment before, when he was helpless as he watched the blade approach.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asked finally.

  “Nobody believes in the Devourer anymore. I told my mother, and she thought I was mad. Before I could change her mind, the forestborn found out and killed her. Then they locked up Raoul in the Château and said that if I told anyone again, they would kill me slowly and use Raoul for a sacrifice instead. Or kill me and Raoul slowly, then sacrifice one of the other bastards.”

  “So you secretly organized a rebellion.”

  “D’Anjou is not as observant as he thinks he is.” Armand’s lips pressed together for a moment; when he spoke again, his voice was fast and miserable. “It was supposed to happen on solstice night, but when I saw you had Joyeuse—I had to try. I though it was worth the risk. But I just ruined everything. At least d’Anjou hasn’t gloated to me yet, so I think Raoul is still alive.”

  “I won’t let him hurt you again,” she said. “And all of this ends tonight. We’ll get Joyeuse right now and get out.”

  Armand shook his head. “No. They’ll just try again with somebody else. They don’t need to use someone with the Royal Gift, they just really want to. You have to get Joyeuse, wait until the Devourer is alive in my body, and then kill the two of us together. I was hoping Raoul could do it, but you’d be even better.”

  “No,” said Rachelle, remembering the afternoon when they had sat in la Fontaine’s salon discussing murder. “Absolutely not.”

  “D’Anjou will let you into the ceremony if he thinks you’re loyal.”

  “No,” she said again.

  “You have to. Don’t you understand? The Devourer doesn’t have a body; that’s why he needs a vessel to manifest. Why do you think Tyr killed him while he was possessing his sister? It has to be that’s the only way to stop him.” Armand drew a ragged breath. “You have to kill me.”

  “Listen to me.” She gripped his shoulders. “I killed somebody I loved once. I can’t do it again.”

  “A noble sentiment,” said Erec.

  The shock was like ice in her blood and bones. She turned. Erec stood behind them, dressed in his favorite coat of black velvet.

  “You,” said Rachelle. She had wanted him, kissed him, made love to him. And he had tortured Armand. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “I really doubt that,” said Erec, raising his hand.

  Tied to his finger was a crimson thread. It fell to the floor, where it pooled in great circles and spirals.

  The other end was tied to her own finger.

  We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing.

  He had always, always been telling her.

  Her heart thudded, but it felt like it belonged to someone else; her body seemed to be wrapped in fire or ice or cotton wool. All she could smell was blood. All she could hear were Aunt Léonie’s soft, agonized whimpers.

  Erec slowly wrapped his fingers down into a fist. The string seared red-hot around her finger; the strength went out of her legs, and she dropped to her knees.

  I never escaped him, she thought dully. I never left the Forest. I never left that house.

  Erec strode forward. Forestborn followed him, appearing out of the shadows, as terrible and as glorious as the ones she had seen in the Wild Hunt.

  “One tug along the string.” Erec’s hand dropped onto her head, then slid down her cheek in a caress. “And you will always return to me. And now I don’t even need to wear my mask.”

  Briefly the strange, memory-tearing vagueness flickered over his face, the
same as when she had first met him. Then he smiled and it was gone.

  He hauled her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening, Monsieur Vareilles. It ends now. My darling needs her rest, and you need to prepare yourself for the glory you receive tomorrow night.”

  Armand’s face was set in the same stubborn blankness she had seen before. But of course, he’d learned nothing new. He already knew all about Erec and the forestborn and the Devourer. He already knew they were hopeless.

  Rachelle closed her eyes and let Erec drag her away.

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  Erec led them through the Château, and it was almost the Forest. Bleeding through the marble hallways, Rachelle saw labyrinthine paths between trees whose branches wove together overhead until they seemed like a single plant. Birds called with warbling, half-human voices. The wind dug its fingers into her hair, burned at her eyes.

  Erec’s arm stayed over her shoulders. It felt warm, solid, human. But in all the time she had known him, he had never been human. She felt his hand cupped over her right shoulder. He had given her the knife with that hand, he had wrapped her fingers around the hilt and told her to cut deep.

  A month later, he had given her the strength to protect people when he told her to live.

  The walk lasted only a few minutes; then they bowed low to pass under an arch in the roots of a monstrous tree, and on the other side was Erec’s study, bizarrely bright and free of the Forest. Suddenly only one of the forestborn was with them, and now he looked like a short, pasty-faced servant who gripped Armand’s arm with chubby fingers.

  “Take him to a safe place and keep him there,” said Erec. “My lady and I have some things to discuss.”

  She didn’t look at Armand while he was dragged out. She didn’t look because she was terrified of what she would see in his face, but also because she knew that the less Erec thought she cared for him, the better for the both of them.

  “So,” she said when the door had swung shut. “Is the King still human?”

  Erec laughed. “Oh, he’s human enough. And a very great fool. He thinks we’re going to give him eternal youth and create him a bloodbound army.”

  “Are you?”

  “We’re building an army,” he said. “You met one of them. Perfect, mindless hunger makes the best servants, you know. But I’m afraid the King won’t live to use them.”

  She should have been past surprise by now, but his words still made her breath stutter.

  “That woman,” she said. “In the coffeehouse—”

  “Escaped from us, yes, and fell in with those idiot malcontents. But that nest, at least, we cleaned out the next day.”

  Rachelle didn’t need to ask what “cleaned out” meant. She remembered the weeping daughter, the husband who had called her a murderer. Erec had killed them. Probably while Amélie had been painting rouge on her face.

  “If you’re so powerful,” she asked, “why do you need the King’s permission?”

  “Because of the binding that those interfering children laid upon our master. We cannot mark one of the royal house without permission from another who holds the Royal Gift.” He grinned at her. “A problem I did not encounter with you.”

  “You killed my aunt,” she said, her voice scraping in her throat like broken glass.

  “No, my lady, you did.”

  She flinched a step back. “Erec, why are you doing this? You can’t—you can’t really want—”

  He had the same superior, amused expression that he always had when he managed to shock her. “What? Endless Night? I welcome it.”

  “But all those times we hunted woodspawn together— You taught me to protect people.”

  “No, my lady, I told you to live.” His voice was gently teasing. “Protecting the sheep of this world was your heresy on my doctrine.”

  “And telling me to live,” she said bitterly, “that was just so I’d be of use to you, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” he said. “I do love you, my lady.”

  She snorted. “As a wolf loves its meat.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “I went to your village to kill you and your aunt, because there was a rumor that you guarded Durendal. But then I spoke to you and you were brave, and I fell in love with you.” He took a step toward her and she stepped back, running into his desk. “Observe how kind I have been to you. I let you choose to become a bloodbound. I let you choose to make love to me.”

  “And if I hadn’t?”

  “Might-have-beens are for poets. What matters is, you chose me. And I have chosen you to rule beside me.”

  She remembered his voice in the Forest: I bring you good news of great joy.

  “So you bring the Devourer back,” she said, “night falls forever, and then . . . we’re crowned king and queen of the forestborn? I suspect there are a few older ones who might take precedence.”

  “Oh, certainly. But kingship isn’t what I’m after.” He pressed forward, nuzzling at her neck. “First, darkness. The sun and moon are eaten from the sky, and all the plump, satisfied world screams in horror. That’s what your saints dream of too, isn’t it, judgment on the complacent? Next—the Wild Hunt. No more bowing and scraping to the sanctimonious, the weaklings, and the proud. No more fear and guilt. We ride the steeds of night and we hunt the human race. When we have had our fill of hunting, then will come the dances, the everlasting starlit dances. And finally—” He planted a hand on the desk to either of side of her. “Finally, in the long secret silences, you and me together. World without end, amen. Is that not a paradise worth a little blood, my lady?”

  Nothing she said would make a difference. The person she had—not loved, exactly, but been friends with—had never existed. All she could do was convince this forestborn that she was helpless and resigned and wait for a chance to escape.

  She drew a slow breath and asked, “Why am I now your lady instead of ‘little girl’?”

  He grinned, clearly thinking that he was starting to win her over. “Because you were once a sheltered little girl. But you took up the knife. You were brave enough to face the darkness. And you became strong.”

  When she took up the knife, it was the weakest she had ever been.

  “Eternity in the Forest,” she said. “Did I ever make you think I wanted that?”

  “I think I can make you want it.”

  Then he kissed her.

  He was a monster. But her body still knew how to desire him. Of course it did; her body had been hollowed out and filled up and transformed by the power of the Forest. How could it help hungering after its maker?

  If she wanted any chance to help Armand, she would have to play along with Erec. And it was going to be easy.

  She couldn’t bear to think about that. So she kissed him back and didn’t think.

  Then somebody knocked on the door.

  With a sigh, Erec let go of her. “It’s never ending,” he said, and went to the door. The person outside spoke in low tones she couldn’t make out, and Erec answered just as softly.

  Rachelle wasn’t listening very carefully anyway. She gripped the edges of the desk and stared at the floor. She felt like a bubble, a tiny gleam wrapped around nothingness.

  “Alas, duty calls,” said Erec, returning to her. “But first—I have a present for you. Something to keep you busy tonight, and console you for all eternity. Come.”

  Rachelle slid off the desk. Tomorrow, she thought numbly. And forever. If she didn’t find a way to stop the Devourer, she would become a forestborn, and she would live forever with nothing but this. Pleasure and despair.

  “Don’t look so mournful,” said Erec. “You’re about to have all you ever wanted.”

  As Rachelle followed him through the corridors, she tried to think of a way out. If she could just talk to Armand again he could tell her where he’d hidden J
oyeuse. But she didn’t know where he was, and even if she did, he was under guard. She’d never been strong enough to defeat Erec, which made sense now that she knew he was a full forestborn, and the forestborn guarding Armand now were probably even stronger.

  At least she hadn’t had to sleep with Erec again. Tonight. If the Devourer returned and night fell forever—

  No. She wouldn’t live that way. If Endless Night fell, then Armand would be dead and Erec would have nothing left to use against her. She’d fight him with every breath in her body, she would force him to kill her, and before she died, at least she would make him bleed.

  Erec took her to a little-used corner of the Château. He opened the door of a small storeroom, and suddenly Rachelle couldn’t move.

  Because Amélie was crouched in the corner.

  She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were swollen and she had a bruise on one cheek. On her other cheek was an ink-black star.

  No, thought Rachelle, no.

  “Are you real?” Amélie asked in a low, hoarse voice. Her cheeks were flushed.

  It was the fever, Rachelle realized: it struck some bloodbound when they were first marked. Fever, cramps, delirium, as if mind and body alike were rebelling against what had happened. It hadn’t happened to her, but she’d heard about it.

  “Yes,” Rachelle whispered. The word was barely more than a catch in her breath, but it broke her paralysis; she lunged forward and gripped Amélie’s shoulders.

  A present.

  “I don’t feel well,” Amélie whispered.

  “It’s all right,” Rachelle said, but nothing was going to be all right again.

  “Father, I don’t feel well.” Amélie squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “It’s all wrong. The flowers. They’re all wrong.”

  Delirium, or was she starting to see the Forest?

  “Lie down,” Rachelle whispered, and eased her down to lie with her head in Rachelle’s lap.

  “She was braver than some, when she was marked,” said Erec. “I think she’ll do well as one of us. Make sure she kills somebody right away tomorrow—there’s no telling what our lord’s return will do to the mark—and if she’s reluctant, help her along as I did for you.”