Crimson Bound

  Suddenly she remembered Aunt Léonie’s fingers weaving a charm as she said, The path of needles or the path of pins.

  Durendal’s other form was a needle.

  There were threads all around her.

  Rachelle’s heart thudded with sudden hope. She hadn’t had to kill the lindenworm, only beguile it. Maybe it would be enough if she didn’t kill the Devourer, but only bound it. Maybe the simple, boring charms that Aunt Léonie had taught her years ago had always been enough.

  “Rachelle,” Erec breathed into her ear, “come with me. Please.”

  And she realized that he did love her. With all that remained of his heart, he loved her. And she pitied him.

  “Erec,” she said, “I came here to destroy the Devourer. If you do not let me try, I will look at him and lose myself. You won’t be able to stop me, I swear it. The only way you’ll have a chance to take me home is if you let me fight him now.”

  His face tightened. “What do you think you can do?”

  “A little woodwife charm. That’s all.”

  “You think that can stop our master?”

  “So let me try and fail, and then we’ll go home together.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, then laughed softly. “I wouldn’t love you if you were any weaker,” he said, and let go of her.

  Rachelle sat up, grasped Durendal, and willed it back into the form of a needle. Then she gathered up a great loop of the string tied to her finger, and she started to knot it around the needle.

  The most terrible charms, Margot had said, or the most simple.

  And it was a very simple charm that Rachelle started to weave—one of the first she’d ever learned, a little knot pattern that would soothe and bind the things beneath it. Usually it was just one step in a larger charm, something to keep the barn doors shut against woodspawn or the wrong seeds from sprouting. Now she knotted it over and over, twisting in upon itself. She picked up other strings and knotted them into it as well.

  She was doomed to be devoured, was she? Then she would make of herself—of all the bloodbound and all the forestborn—such a morsel as would choke the Devourer forever.

  The roaring grew louder. The dust shook at her feet.

  “What are you doing?” Erec demanded.

  The pattern had taken life. As the strings dragged through the dust toward the Devourer, they wiggled and bunched and tied themselves into the little knots, again and again. She could sense the power in them, like a thousand voices whispering close-shut-fall-forever.

  “It’s falling,” she said. “For all of time, it’s been falling, and dragging us along with it. I’m setting it free.”

  The strings were made of the Devourer’s power, and now they were twisted into patterns that continually turned the Devourer in on itself, collapsing it away from the human world. From any world.

  “What have you done?” Erec demanded.

  “I think,” said Rachelle, “I’ve taught it to devour itself.”

  She stood. She still remembered what he had done. She would still hate him, when they returned to daylight. But she had seen the Devourer now, the limitless hunger and despair, and she couldn’t wish for even him to become part of that.

  “Come with me,” she said, and took his hand.

  A tremor passed through his face. He didn’t say anything, but he gripped her hand in return.

  Around them, the dust shuddered again, then started running toward the Devourer in little waves that crashed and broke against their legs. Rachelle staggered and marched forward, leaning against the pull of the Devourer, which sucked at her like an inverse wind.

  “What do you think remains for us?” Erec demanded. “Are we going to beg and grovel before your precious saint and bishop?”

  “We might die first,” Rachelle shouted back over the growing roar of the Devourer. She was actually pretty sure they would die, even if they weren’t sucked in. The light had faded; she could see no way out, nothing but darkness.

  She barely heard him when he said, “No, my lady. That fate is not for me.”

  She didn’t see him look back. But she knew that he did, because she felt his hand crumble to salt and ashes in her grasp.

  A scream ripped out of her throat. But there was no time for grief or rage. The pull was getting stronger; so was the song, and it took all her strength to remember that she must not turn around, must not look back and be swallowed up by the cataclysm of swirling despair behind her.

  She willed Durendal back into the form of a sword, gripped it two-handed, and plunged it into the ground. Then she knelt and clung to it as the flying dust scoured her face, as the thread burned on her finger, as the Devourer screamed into her mind.

  She thought of the long-forgotten person killed to make the bone that Zisa would steal to make Durendal, and she thought, Help me. Please.

  The hilt warmed beneath her hands. Then it grew hot, and then it burned with a fire that far surpassed that of the string on her finger. Rachelle sobbed, but she hung on. This was the sword that endured all things; she felt sure that if she did not let go, she could endure along with it.

  Suddenly there was a great, rending scream that seemed to split the air in two. A flash of light.

  And then, silence. And darkness.

  And she was not holding a sword, but warm and human hands.

  She opened her eyes.

  Aunt Léonie looked back at her.

  She was the same as when she died. Blood still dripped down the side of her face and soaked the front of her dress; the hollow gash was still cut into her throat. And yet there was no pain and no fear in her eyes. She was smiling, and that smile—the very way she breathed—was more alive, more real than Rachelle had ever seen her when she lived. Her spattered blood was transfigured into a lovingly crafted decoration. She possessed the wounds, as they had once possessed her.

  “You—” Rachelle said, and her throat closed up. She did not feel afraid, only ignorant and helplessly ashamed.

  “You’re dead,” she whispered finally. “I know you are with God, so why are you still bleeding?”

  “Because,” said Aunt Léonie, “how else could I forgive you?”

  There were tears running down Rachelle’s face, salty as the wasteland that had swallowed Erec. “That makes no sense.”

  “You were never the cleverest child,” said Aunt Léonie. “But you had a good heart. That’s why I chose you to guard Durendal.” She laid a hand, sticky with blood, against Rachelle’s cheek. “And you did. You fought very hard and you were very brave.”

  “And wicked.”

  “That too. And now you have a choice.”

  “What?” Rachelle asked warily.

  “Look at your hands,” said Aunt Léonie.

  Rachelle looked down. There was a skein’s worth of glowing white threads, tied to all her fingers and wending away into the darkness ahead of her like a river.

  “If you want to go back,” said Aunt Léonie, “you may.”

  “Back.” The word was dry and hollow in her mouth. “You mean . . .”

  “I mean you will live again.”

  “But I’m dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “People who are dead don’t just get to . . . to choose to come back to life. Or why didn’t you?” Her voice shook with fury. “Why didn’t you?”

  Aunt Léonie just smiled fondly. “Do you think I’m here to answer that? I’m here to remind you that you have only ever had one choice: the path of needles, or the path of pins.”

  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 sa
id to Aunt Léonie, and then she followed the threads away into the darkness.

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  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 the clearing where they had fought the Devourer. 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.

  Armand looked around the hall. He seemed to be measuring up the people around him and finding them just barely sufficient. “The King had Raoul Courtavel imprisoned in the Château as a hostage against me. I will require some guards to free him.”

  Vincent spluttered, clutching at the fragments of command. “You can’t just—”

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, monsieur.” La Fontaine was approaching them with a set of palace guards at her back. “Last week, our dear, late king made a will that legitimized Prince Raoul and named him heir. I saw him sign it. I have the documents.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I also,” la Fontaine continued pleasantly, halting just a step away from him, “have proof that you conspired to assassinate your cousin Armand Vareilles. And the captain of the guard believes me.” She smiled. “I would advise you not to land that blow, monsieur.”

  Vincent hastily lowered his hand, his gaze flickering from side to side. He had clearly never considered that anyone would seriously contest him so quickly—especially not Armand or la Fontaine—so he had brought no supporters with him. He tried a smile; it looked rather sickly.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that grief for my uncle has caused you to start engaging in wild fantasies—forging a will in my uncle’s name—”

  And here came the Bishop, his dark cassock swinging. “I have seen the documents,” he said. “I am satisfied.”

  Rachelle wondered if anyone else noticed that he hadn’t said the documents were genuine.

  It didn’t matter. She could see it in the faces of the guards, of the nobles gathered around them. The Bishop and la Fontaine had helped save their lives last night. Armand was their saint. They trusted them now.

  “Think what you want,” said Armand. “I’m going to free my brother and my king.”

  He strode away without
looking back. And so, of course, the guards and Rachelle and la Fontaine followed him. Vincent stayed behind, his mouth hanging open.

  He would never be able to command anyone who had stood in the Hall of Mirrors this morning. Rachelle took a vicious pleasure in the knowledge.

  Armand led them through little-used corridors to a set of small, lightless rooms. Rachelle knew them: Erec had shown them to her, and told her that they were for keeping prisoners. He hadn’t told her who was held captive behind the most well-guarded of the doors.

  There were no guards now. Rachelle wondered if they had been given orders to kill their prisoners if things went wrong, and if they had obeyed those orders. But Armand strode forward as if doubt and fear belonged in another world and had no power to touch him. He had always been desperately, terrifyingly human to her, but now she could see why people bowed before him and called him saint.

  “This one,” said Armand, halting in front of a door.

  The guards broke it down on his command. And on the other side—there was Raoul Courtavel. Rachelle might not have recognized the tall man with the ragged beard. But when he pulled Armand into a desperate, wordless embrace, there was no mistaking him.

  This was why Armand had led an armed rebellion. This was what Rachelle had killed to stop him from achieving.

  She turned away, feeling sick. She found la Fontaine looking at her, no pride or courtly polish left anywhere in her face.

  “Thank you,” said la Fontaine, looking straight into her eyes, and the words sounded more sincere than anything la Fontaine had ever said to her.

  Rachelle knew she didn’t deserve them.

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  For the next two days, Rachelle was beside Armand almost every moment. And she barely said a word to him.